running away

i'm running away from
home
my sister tells me one night,
sitting on
the front porch, which is really
a stoop of
concrete steps
that lead out to the sidewalk
where a blue mailbox
sits.
but you're fifty years old
I tell her.
so what, she says.
I've always wanted to run away
from home
and now I have the means
to do it.
I look out at her car.
it's red, a convertible.
there's a suitcase in back.
how's the new car?
it's okay, she says. but it
doesn't make me happy.
what does, I ask her,
trying to find her eyes
behind the sunglasses.
wine, she says. red wine
to be specific.
if anyone asks, you don't know
where I am, okay?
sure, I tell her.
beach, three days?
yes, she says. can I borrow
some beach towels, I
left mine at home.