runaways

long, thin roads and signs that say
'Welcome to Small Town Canada,
home of an obscenely large object
or a mildly celebrated athlete.'

(who knew pavement
could give off such clouds of dust
as to obscure the sign completely?)

forced to get out and determine
exactly where we are,
we hear strangers muttering at the gas station about your button-down
pink shirt
and my fishnet tights
and the vaguely exasperated looks on both our faces
arguing quietly as we wait for directions

this is what we're running from-
cold indifference to our faces
and scandalized murmurs behind our backs
running from a world that doesn't want the mavericks
(though we've never felt quite this different before).

once we have straightened ourselves out
and we leave a housewife with a cliché baby on her hip
standing on the gravel actively-longingly-staring
you curse at semi-trailers ahead
and I write poems about places we left behind wondering if acceptance can be an acquired trait
and if it's one we really want to find
there is, after all, a certain glamour
in being a runaway.