072015   072024

The first time running away 
I was six with a hobo stick
clothes tied on the kerchief end
after a couple blocks mom brought me home in the car.
The second time I was eighteen
with my friend Lee by thumb to LA
freeway entrance ramps were crowded with hitchhiker queues
staying free at a half-way house with mandatory counseling 
a distraught young woman intentionally retched
on the shirt of the psychologist 
whose glasses were scotched-taped.
At forty-five I motorcycled coast to coast
a Blackfoot toddler was crossing gas station pumps
oblivious to danger on her way to the store
cars and pickups held her with invisible hands.