Run by Rich Quatrone

1929-Indian-101-Scout-45-cu

RUN

You know that feeling, I’m sure.
The urge to run. Just run.
Get the fuck out.
My passport expired two weeks
ago, first time in 20 years.
Not a good feeling.
Will get a photo taken, send
in the 150 bucks and have my
escape card again.
Just to run.
Get out of America.
Out of Sprung Leak.
Away from the woman I love
like a stone thrown into a deep
well and there’s no sound when it
hits bottom.
I don’t want to hit bottom, that’s the point.
I just want to run.
I looked up cheap motocycles two nights
ago on the internet.
There are no cheap motorcycles.
And I have a bum shoulder.
But I will find that bike one day, and not
far off.
Or I will board that plane to Cuba, one of the
few countries I’ve always wanted to see.
Cuba, Italy, France. The three I have dreamed
about.
When I was in my 30s it was England, the lake district
where Wordsworth lived and wrote.
I could speak the language, I figured.
And read its literature.
So, yes, England was good.
Maybe even now.
But just get the fuck out.
That’s the main thing.
And run.
Fast as my old legs
can take me.

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