Fugitive

Down the hill,
tea time darkness.
Headphones in.
eyes down.

I’m Elbow charged.

Seldom seen kids and leaves.
The shrapnel of 2009.
They laugh at me,
as I did once with them.

At the supermarket checkout, I queue.
Sandra knows I’m mad.
Her eyes tell my story,
with everything I buy.

Outside I’m hiding again.
Under florescent bus shelters.
Tight in the corners.

Smoking damp cigarettes,
in dripping hands.
I wage war on my past.

I see an incident,
which pivots and spins.
One that tore me asunder.

Running up the hill,
kitchen table warmth.
January 1971.

The rain rattling down again.

Towel dry cuddles,
from mums
and dads.
Radiated love.

They had sponge
and custard for tea.

It was always afters for others.