After we ran away: 
mold in our motel room,
zits and a zirconium overture. 

Two hoodies on one journey;
our families searching 
for us like bedbugs.
 
You talked of train rides,
a hitchhiker bride in a
dueling guitar romance. 
 
I tumbled after you, 
my rough ravine,
where foreign vines gained.
 
My first time in cuffs:
ego a mildewed log
crumbling under weight. 

Our kudzu attraction
meeting the fiercest flame;
I destroyed a forest in your name.

2 comments

1. some startling images but I have to admit I read the poem a few times and still don’t know what’s going on — unless it’s a variation on the Boss’s ‘Born to Run’: ‘tramps like us, we were born to run’ ;

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   • Yes, it is very much memory, lots of elements rolled together. That may be why it feels so ignored, as it was a glimpse into something that perhaps requires many more words to be expressed. Thank you, John, for stopping by.

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