Bought 8 hours into the drive home,
somewhere between Atlanta
and Chatanooga, pinnacle
of American capitalism.
Fresh with the smell of grief 
and orange cat fur, I wrap it
around my legs during online
therapy and two hour phone calls,
when we both knew this was a bad idea,
and we both can’t escape our regret.
I laugh at the childish memories—
the text from outside the gas pumps,
proclaiming I had made it to the promised 
land, best 30 dollars I’ve ever spent,
overstuffed into dad old Nike travel
backpack from 2018 I borrowed next to
a box of crumbed-up granola bars and
a paperback bible, the look of disapproval
when I return and show my purchases to
my parents, now laying on my bedroom floor,
as if it always belonged there.