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