RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

Every night
I would run away from home
as I tried to fall asleep.
I would hear
from the next bedroom
the mellifluous tones
of mom cooing to my dad
just what a sonofabitch bastard
I was
that day:
lying selfish sneaky; in short,
a piece of shit.
I think I was about eight
or nine...maybe ten.
She was encouraging him to
"give him a beating, Mick."
Whether I did something
or not didn't matter;
I was always doing something.
A feeling of guilt
would puddle around me,
& the blankets & bed
I slept under & on,
would drip, in the morning,
with neurosis
of many kinds
pooling around my feet.

Every night
the decision was easy:
Roy & Dale's ranch
was where I was headed;
they had a big spread,
a big heart,
& a big family; they kept
adopting kids: chinese kids,
spanish kids, white kids
& black kids, old kids,
& young kids; there musta been
a hundred of em
all livin & lovin each other
on that spread.
I'd just show-up
with all my stuff
in my hand
neatly in a small kerchief
& ask if they would let me stay.
I knew they'd never say, "no."
Not to a kid.

Everyday
I'd play.
I'd ride that awesome Palimino, Trigger,
play with Bullet & even help his cook, cook.
And then Pat would teach me Nellybelle, the Jeep,
& we'd go up & down hills & valleys and,
when she had a mind to, she'd run away from me, too.

In the morning
I looked at her
over my burnt & tasteless eggs.
"Eat it, or I'll tell your father," she sneered.
"Tell him, who gives a shit," I wanted to say.
But I knew, somewhere, far off,
they were mending fences,
bucking broncos, and laughing,
as I shoveled in
another bite.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020