out the back window

leaving

is harder, almost as hard

as arriving

sometimes

when you go to places

you don't

want to go to.

Christmas

was sometimes like that.

going to my

mother's house

where she was married to a

tyrant

that we all hated.

we went

for her though, not for him.

an hour

later, after

dinner, and small talk, i'd

be sneaking

out the back window,

climbing,

then crawling to my car

in the dark,

to get away.