you took the baby to your mother’s end of June
& kissed her for the last time
on the bed in your old room
then up to Northfield in the Fairmont just you two
you always drove the getaway
so you wouldn’t have to shoot
& after a couple jobs like clockwork
where not one of you had slipped
you were on your way back to Wisconsin
hit a deer & flipped
came to on the pavement
bleeding hard from the crash
calling to no one
he was as gone as the cash
but there was the Ford flipped under an overpass
the baby seat strapped in the back
the windshield smashed & red streaked
as an exploded dye pack
& so you crawled in & you closed the door
& laid on what was now the floor
& swore that you would figure out the rest
when it was morning