Running from home

The road has a megaphone,

And it blasts my name with high-pitch

Reverb as I look sheepishly at my watch.

Six hours of sleep if I’m lucky.

Morning is the best time to drive.

The summer-sun story is in intro

And I can put down the book. 

Too hot for sheets tonight, though.

Today’s narrative replays on internal pages:

Feet under a table, turned in and nervous 

About the game strategy topside; an easy

Laugh; a strained laugh; 

the smell of laundry and brats and church;

A dog falling limp on the floor — showing deference. 

Home is power. Like the sun. I sweat.

I drift into that world between where 

The math doesn’t add up.

Flashes of soccer, being a captain,

Reverting to defense, hiding in a maze of a school building I’ve never seen but knew instantly.

What am I running from and looking for? 

I can hear the fans, anxious, cheering. 

I hear the fan. I turn to rest my side.

Sweat beads on my brow.

Five hours if I’m lucky. 

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