Renee Williams is a retired English professor, who has written for Of Rust and Glass, Alien Buddha Press and the New Verse News. 

Give Me Shelter

My father always said it never rains on the motorcyclist
though this time he could be wrong.

The Softail pushed by the winds, tires sliding,  we whipped
over the serpentine of 664,  a little Switzerland of its own right.

Lightning illuminated the hills, strikes slashed into the woods
the sheet of rain inched our way.

Though less than five miles from home
it was no longer safe to push our luck and keep going.

Safe haven appeared on the tiny porch of the Mount Tabor Christian Fellowship Church, 
complete with a statue of Jesus, right there to protect us. 

Jumping off the bike, we ran for the landing 
and huddled there, witnessing the summer storm, 

thunder shaking the wood beneath our feet, drizzle pounding.
Yet dry we remained. 

The Most Delicious Feeling in the World

Racing out the door to beat the rain drops, my best friend 
and I hurried to the bottom of the driveway, treats in hand,
sunglasses for my glaucoma, his lumberjack coat,
my comforting Carhartt.

Quiet road, devoid of cars, school buses, or trash trunks
we worked on commands: sit, stay, and come.
Reaching in my pocket for a reward,
noticing the absence of “it”
shame and guilt overtook me. 
How could I have left my cell phone on the table?

Tied to two phones most of the time
even taking both just to fetch the mail
paint me as the picture of predictability
the one who’d been beholden to a chronically ill father
and now a needy mother. 
How could I?

Then…elation
untethered by responsibility, freedom.
I listened—
and heard the familiar chirp of  a chickadee or a song sparrow.

I looked—
and saw the Carolina chickadee
with a half dozen cronies
holding court in a crabapple tree.

The world could rotate on its axis for a half an hour at least
and I was off the grid.
Rather than run back home for that punitive device
I walked and savored early spring.

White-throated sparrows crooned their ode of “Oh Canada…da…da…”
Daffodils popped from the barren earth.
Forsythias bloomed. 

The Costliest Budweiser

Beads of sweat slide down the bottle of Budweiser 
as he tossed his worries on the bar
alongside his wallet with two twenties, one ten, and six fives—
cash collected from his co-workers—
entrusted to him to buy the tickets for tonight’s billion dollar drawing. 
At the time, how could he possibly know
this would be the costliest beer of his life?

For how did he tell his wife 
that he didn’t buy the lottery tickets 
for his forty co-workers at the post office, 
and himself, 
as he had the winning numbers,
the same ones he played each week,
as all were sure 
one day would lead to a winning combination,
which they did, 
on the very night that he didn’t buy the tickets
because he opted to have a drink instead?

After the numbers were drawn, 
were his friends at the local
already ordering 72-inch televisions from Amazon,
were calls made to realtors to sell houses,
were inquiries put forth about buying
remote, ocean-front mansions somewhere down deep
in the Florida Keys
because everyone assumed he had gone off to do
what they thought he would do
because it was what he always did?

At work, Sam won’t make eye contact with him
while Evan won’t stop staring at him
only shaking his head
morning greetings are muffled or ignored
his daughter skips meals 
and his son races off to basketball practice
even though he hasn’t gotten off the bench once all season. 
Nights have gotten colder.

At another bar, in another town, 
he slaps a wrinkled five and two quarters
down on the counter
Travis Tritt twilling on the jukebox
Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares
and walks out the door.