When I tell people I’m moving to a city I’ve never been to at the end of the summer, a lot of them ask me how I’m going to get all my stuff there, then look at me funny when I say I don’t really have that much.

Most of us, maybe, have done that. I knew a woman once
threw an iced bucket, ten sweatshirts, and her high school
annual in the car, ripped out of the driveway spitting
gravel and didn’t pull over until she heard a lone
killdeer cry on a farmer’s fence post. I loved that woman.

—from ‘Sometimes We Throw Things in the Car, Fast’ by Gary Gildner in Annual Survey of American Poetry: 1985.