Mad Money


She says it’s for bus fare home. Not like crazy,

paint the town, but mad mad really mad,

hornets and hell and how could he


And the fog was so thick they had to stop

and sleep in the car. In the morning they

saw they’d been hanging over the edge of a


Says you tuck it in a shoe in case he takes

your purse, in case a hand goes over

your mouth as one goes up your


Says her aunt brought home these sailors

and they all played poker and her aunt

died a drunk but always liked a


And the car got a flat and he was in a cast

and he changed it with a broken


And somebody stole his shirt and his watch

but they went to Reno and got married

in a borrowed


Says even then you tuck it in a drawer

in case he



Amy Miller’s poetry has appeared in Camas, Rattle, Spillway, Willow Springs, and ZYZZYVA. Her chapbooks include I Am on a River and Cannot Answer (BOAAT Press) and Rough House (White Knuckle Press). She won the Cultural Center of Cape Cod National Poetry Competition, judged by Tony Hoagland, and the Jack Grapes Poetry Prize from Cultural Weekly, and has been a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and 49th Parallel Award. She lives in Oregon.