Don’t know how
many times
I’ve been on
this Greyhound
to run away from
all my problems,
but I’m on it again,
chasing down a
dream that was
never mine.

I pass by the
old pond where
we used to play
as kids, ghosts
by the waterside
splashing around,
unconcerned about
futures and money
and women
and being old and
miserable
and alone.

Do you remember
the time the
pack of wolves
emerged from the trees
and watched us
with those
hungry round
eyes?
We didn’t know
it at the
time
but we sure ended
up a lot like them,
chasing after
lambs and turning
them feral,
once so innocent,
now full of
*** and drugs
and every
******* STD
there is possible
to catch.
Do you ever
regret any
of it?
I sure as hell
do, I think.

I lean my
head back
into my seat and
listen to the
rickety rack of
the tired
suspension
and the chugging of
the dying diesel
engine, and
in my drunken state
I howl
howl
howl
at the wolves
hiding in the
timber.