THE RUNAWAY


Because life tells us
you disappeared
by hiding under
your dad's shades
you lived in guest rooms
in modest corners
on slate roofs
behind split ends of books
in stalls of San Francisco
under limber lost furniture
a suffocation from fear
and loneliness
having to sell your body
to the highest corner pimp
of pitiless low down promoters
and prompters
in a changeless play
upstaged uptown
circling under your eyes
by inchoate mirrors
who try to capture your soul
and body for slavery traffic
eating sunflower seeds
with the birds
hiding in church basements
behind rotted apple barrels
or under newspaper stands
until a good Samaritan
rescues you
jumping between bicycles
near a boutique
on Nob Hill
in a no man's landing
you expect to die
in your pea jacket
or the overcoat
from the Salvation Army
watching the making TV show
" The Streets of San Francisco"
and applying to be an extra
in  the cherry bomb
police drama
of political intrigue
at city hall
hiding at a No Parking Sign
you tried to steal
licking blood
from your wounds
for holding up your life
as guys pick you up
along the 666 highways
of San Bernardino
for apparitions' drugs
looking to find friendship
of a cool few years
as the blood moon
closes to inherit
your shoe less time
in time served
hearing the devil's trill
in death's informality
as you get back to school
and study the cello.