Today’s heist: robbing our own bank account. 

For $100 what is: your mother’s maiden name after the divorce,

your middle school teacher who told you not to worry

about college loans. Your first pet and her 

prescription wet food, and the rusted street 

you grew up on where you still pay rent 

on a safety deposit box of Pittsburgh air. 

Thank you for giving me the life of a secret agent, 

picking the lock of our own apartment, 

rappelling in through the window only to be caught

by our own alarm. 

On the phone you sweet talk Charlene 

into resetting our PIN like a master class in seduction. 

I love the way you drive a high speed chase 

to the post office. Filling out the money order 

for your bankruptcy on the day that it’s due. 

Two minutes? Plenty of time. 

You cut the red wire with a wink. 

Thank you for this trivia game made just for us, 

my forgetful partner in crime, for safaris 

through the sands of lost passwords, 

for the secrets we keep 

from ourselves, for the acorns we forget, 

and the trees they will become. 

For every dollar you earn twice; once when you’re paid,

and again when you remember where you put it. 

But until we remember, 

bless this shopping cart 

with its black beans and shredded cheddar, 

give me one more look at the fancy feast 

before I have to put it back. 

Bless the silent walk to the car, 

empty canvas bags trailing behind us 

like just married cans.