Divorce, by B.A. Van Sise

Listen to the poem here:

Driving down the Delta
Highway with my wife,
we hit a pothole, hurting
-severely- the Hertz rental
we keep on putting through
mud, gravel, unraveling 
asphalt on a three day bender
wending along the Mississippi
toward the day we return it,
fine on the outside in spite 
of all the damage to its shocks,
the rocks rumbled up into the
suspension, the tension on its 
axles, same as every other person
who’s borrowed it since its beginning.
A year from now, some girl a thousand
miles from here, her father over her
nape, will gape in shock at her good luck:
the used dealer has it on sale for
only five thousand bucks, as is. “We’ve
just got it in,” he says, and it’s the 
best he’s shown her.  “Only fifty
thousand miles.  One single owner.”

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