Thursday, July 12, 2012


Every time my best friend Dave and I
Ran away from home as kids
He always marked the same spot
As making our escape official

Everything scared us back then
Especially the people who raised us
His old man beating him for backtalk
When it was the bottle in his old man’s pocket
That did all the talking

Me, I was always pissing off somebody
In my house, my boy-crazy uncle
Once chased me around my house with a hammer
Though we both knew it wasn’t the hammer
He intended to hit me with if I got caught.

Dave always stopped at the end of our street
And said, ‘this is it, this makes it official,”
And I always believed him, more scared of what
Lay ahead after that, than the beatings or the abuse
Back at our houses,
Even though we had run away so often
As to know every inch of that terrain.
We always expected something horrible to happen
Because we violated some sacred trust
To be beaten or raped, to love the people who did it

Dave and I always bickered most at these times
About which way to go, and which one of us
Wanted to turn back, and why,
With me or he calling him or me a coward
He even said I wasn’t being his friend any more
Because I was scared and said stupid things,
Both of us knowing that we loved each other
To ever stop being friends,
Even all these years later when we both managed
To get away – finally.

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