LIKE A DOWNY FEATHER
THAT FLOATS UP THE SHAFT
OF SOME DESERTED MATTRESS FACTORY,
WHERE,
DURING THE LUNCH HOUR,
A SUB-CLERK WITH A WEAK CHIN
AND A BAD COLD, PHONED HIS MOTHER
THAT HE WOULD BE DELAYED GETTING HOME
BECAUSE HE HAD TO GO SEE ABOUT GETTING A NEW RADIO TUBE,
AND AFTER THAT MAYBE STOP AND EXAMINE SOME CLOCK-PATTERN SOCKS
HE'D NOTICED ON SALE,
I GO AIMLESSLY ON,
NOT REALLY KNOWING WHETHER I'M RUNNING FROM SOMEBODY,
OR SOMEBODY'S JUST CHASING ME BECAUSE I'M RUNNING.
