Runaway

by Ian C. Smith

He is fourteen, on his own
with no heating, no phone
no savings, or late-night knaving.
This kid’s barely shaving.
In the shared kitchen he heats
inexpensive snacks, repeats
just one course, the main
then back to his cold room again
a shadow at childhood’s end
future man without a friend.

He reads movie magazines
wearing only a pair of jeans
lying lonely on his narrow bed
starring as a handsome hothead
or taking the jackpot with an ace.
He would like to press his face
between a woman’s breasts
like a gunslinger of the old west
seen from the dark stalls, his redoubt
on his weekly night out.