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
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
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
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.
Fast as my old legs
can take me.