By: Christine Jackson

We got married in the spring
and after too many bellyfuls
of mac and cheese
in the wet summer heat,
you hankered for a change.

You had eighty-two dollars
in your jeans pocket.
I kept a rumored job
tucked in my purse.
The night before the rent came due
we pulled out of our third-floor walk-up
and hit the road.

We rolled four hundred miles
over the Alleghenies,
barreling down twisty roads
in a 1990 Ramcharger,
Springsteen blasting into the front seat.

Then,
like an old dog,
the SUV spit its last and died.
leaving us abandoned on the other side,
but we weren’t sure of what.

My rumored job disappeared;
you were hired at a bar.
After you got fired,
I cracked up the new old car.

The next time you mention change,
take it to the Laundromat.