I wasn’t homeless, just had my mattress
in my ’69 Chevy, clothes underneath boxes
in the trunk. Everyday stuff in the front-seat
backpack. I moved 14 times that year,
drinking and drugs but still working
my waitress job. I was in motion.
Driving, working, hoping
to stay with a friend for a night,
I was pregnant but kept moving, and then
days later, fired from my downtown job
for trying to start a union—I wasn’t—
just arguing a waitress policy.
So, the night before my abortion staying
with a bartender (not the father) on his couch,
his girlfriend came home late and rightly
kicked me out. I wasn’t homeless,
just moving, 14 times that year,
and I was alone with it.
Visual art by Sarah Kohrs