San Diego, Las Vegas, Cheyenne, Omaha, Chicago, Columbus, Rochester, Albany, Boston

It's like a small city's version of the Port Authority,
a confluence of streams
buses and trains from and to somewhere else,
but it's back in a time when you could
stretch out and sleep on a bench or
in one of those chairs with the coin operated television built in
without being molested
well, without being molested
by the police anyway.

You're down here with the other runaways,
in the same vicinity that is
but not together,
all alone.

You pretend not to recognize each other
and maintain a low profile.

You sit at the bus station's bar and
you nurse a single beer while pouring over
the Amtrack and Greyhound schedules
feeling a slowly building thrill
until you catch your reflection in the window.

You're disappointed with what you see, again
because how you look
is not how you started to feel
there for a second
and then you start walking
home
because it's almost dinner.

You're the second kind of runaway
the kind not going anywhere
while the others remain
in their charade
pretending someone
somewhere
is looking for them.