Runaway

I was seven. Early summer, dusk. After a fight

with my stupid mother, put a peanut butter

sandwich, green apple, one panty and a book

in my metal lunchbox. Marched off to a new life.

Fireflies blinked on off on; steamy air delicious

with mimosa. Dark fell: dinner-time. Only me

out.... The big old sycamores black and creaky.

No more houses.... Rustles in the weeds.... Trash.

I'm a little girl. Where will I sleep? I ate

the apple walking back. It wasn't sweet.

PHOTO CREDIT: BitHead