sleep in the back seat, on an old
blanket printed with Indian horses and arrowheads.
Their alarm clock is the night shift leaving
the Ford plant.
Mornings, she washes with water
from the radiator, cooks an egg
on the dull black metal of the hood,
and sets the dishes to soak in the trunk.
He reads last week's paper while
the news blazes on the radio.
"Hey, guess who died?" He calls out the window
to her. But she is busy looking at
fabric samples; she would like to re-cover
the seats someday.