Runaway

Home, a bar code on your cells;

it won’t be left behind;

the more you try, the wider the crater grows.

I hear it in the shrillness of your retorts,

its lightning is in your eyes;

you forever feeding the vulture on your shoulder;

your frustration a lasso in the hands of home.

The swirl of home is in the pockets of your mind;

you live in its flux.

You choose to run with it or against it,

flow or trip.

Gagged voices don’t make sweeter listening.