Page 10 of Wayfarers

really good hair, convinces you, like, he’ll stay forever

right before he makes a break for it. Golden retriever

escape artist. Pogo sticks for legs. Six-foot fences

mean nothing to him unless

he’s worn out from a walk and guess who

was the only one who walked him. He was my mom’s

in name only. I brought him with me because if I didn’t

I knew I’d never see him again. Thank God

I did. One week on the road and the only thing

that makes me slide open the Sprinter’s door

is Winslow’s sad eyes. It was harder the first few nights,

parking at the edge of the Walmart lots

in Cadillac, Grand Rapids, walking him

in little leashed circles while my brain

ran its own track. I felt like I had

a target on my back. Felt fraudulent

in a way I hadn’t before, Rich Girl

in a Benz, parked mirror to mirror

with people who had to work for what

they had. It made me hate myself or maybe see

myself for what I’d been all along, girl

with a choice, washing my hair with the sulfate-free shampoo

in the biodegradable packaging at the truck stop

shower, overtipping on every iPad screen, a tourist

in someone else’s everyday. Drove to look

at beautiful things then couldn’t make myself

climb out to actually see them. Still I wasn’t ready to bail.

Go home, face Mom, face everyone—the embarrassment

lit me up like kindling. Late that first Sunday,

curtains drawn, van door locked and barred and