Glenn G. Coats

Shoes by the Door

He saw her in the sisters. The way they each walked with confidence and stood straight and tall. The way they talked and brushed snow from their sleeves. The way they gave off light when they stood side by side in church. He liked to be around them.

graveside wreath
the wind lifts snow
from a pasture

After her passing, he still watched television with headphones on as if she were reading beside him. He still filled the same wine glass and never touched hers. The one with a crack so slight, he had to hold it up to the light in order to see it.

a prayer
through a half-open door
morning stars

The car was hers (bright red) with a few years left on the lease. He turned it in and absorbed the penalty. Bought himself an old car with an engine that rattled like maracas. When he first turned it over, blue smoke spewed from the muffler—blue like water. It rose for an instant then when he looked in the rearview mirror—it was gone.

deep winter
the weight of air
breaks ice