Dad sold me the yellow Astra for $1 in 1983
Already the end
an era
that junker
we listened to Jim Croce sing Operator
on a barely-functioning 8-track tape deck
my sister and I drove my broken heart east.
On the Pennsylvania Turnpike
I entered a phone booth with a slip
of paper
(also yellow)
and dialed a follow-up
my future boss
who confirmed
yes
I’d have a job in that Happy Massachusetts Valley.
We carried everything we owned in that car
$1000 between us
a town in view
one known job
no known address
wild faith
that we’d figure things out
eat fried eggs and crackers and
fortify our lives from there.
In an empty apartment
on Graves Avenue
we played records
danced with our shadows
started again on
a dead end street
at home with the scratch
of needle on vinyl
Murphy’s Oil Soap
the luxury of
a cold Rolling Rock
a Camel Cigarette
Early Morning Poems 