One night the fog rolled in
and took him with it, his coffin
the old blue sedan she’d always hated.
They’d brought him up from the mountain
where he’d failed to make the turn
(the road ran out in front of him
like the last dollar in the pocket
of his too-tight jeans).
–excerpt from “Blue Ridge Buds” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective 2011). First published in Slant.