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Evolution

by Rachel Johnson

Oh, runaway…
oh, run away!


Bags always nestled
somewhere in that limbo land
between packed ’n un-
packed; between coming,
but we’re always going.

Oh, run away
at four am, when highways
are at their most romantic.
To keep heading west—
what a novelty it’d be
to die old
in the Good Ol’ West.
A life, lived as
a Josie, or a Fern.

Someone else
who never had nightmares
about the open highway.

Yet longed to make those nightmares
dreams come true.

Oh, runaway,
with your second hand auto—
third hand, or fourth, really—
and your hair in braids.
There’s no fear of desert’s dust
on your flannel,
nor of northwest’s rains
on your shoes.
The envy of the masses,
you are, yes—we can
admit that much.

How apes longed
for the opportunity to run.
Our legs straightening slowly,

Our spines taking much longer.

Oh, Runaway,
oh, run away!

and be whatever it is
you thought you’d be—
a waitress or a writer,
a copper; a robber.

A person who stole hearts
And minds
And all the future

laid out for themselves.

Oh, Runaway!
…oh, run away.

05/28/2014

Author's Note: Not sure how I feel about this one, especially the italics. And the title. Trying it out.

Posted on 05/29/2014
Copyright © 2024 Rachel Johnson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 06/01/14 at 01:19 AM

Sometimes I believe we all run away from something. Usually it is our self, and we rarely admit because we refuse to even think of it. Good write lady.

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