013. Running Away -- Without a Door

I stare through dogwood blossoms 
at the streetlight,
use a mayonnaise jar to pee
when I have to.
My father stops in,
says I can come down
for dinner.  After the meal,
I bolt.  
No bag, no belongings.

Hustle down the driveway,
hustle down the sidewalk,
hustle down the road.

Now and then, I check
behind me.  I have done this
before, and always
they've come after me.
This time, I get
where I'm going.
I ring my best friend's doorbell.

She is going out
with the boyfriend I am in secret
love with, and she does not change
her plans.  I sit in a taupe living
room with her dad and stepmom
eating second dinner, chicken and asparagus.
We watch a movie that scares me
a little.  My friend never does
come home before my mother
knocks.  My friend's dad just lets her
take me.

We ride home, through the same
streets I've been hurried over
since I was tiny.  They seem to mock me
now, saying I will never get away
for good.
I follow my mother
through the garage, through the orange
kitchen, to my room without a door.  
I sit on the windowsill, one leg
inside, one outside, and stare through
the dogwood tree at houses 
where other things are happening.