Each Place I Don’t Want To Be

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And there she was.
The pale face against the pillows,
reminding me of my Grandfather in quiet strength and stoic phrase. I found myself wondering how much work goes into keeping those sheets white
in a place like this.

The light was too bright

and when I left the day had darkened to a storm twilight, roiling with my emotions, threatening my world. Her life, the fist still clenches

Tightly.

I drove slowly through the white out rain, sheets of surface flood body slamming my car as others flew passed.
No place to stop, I drove through the city and up
into the country, barren.
Running out of petrol.
Running out of time.
Running away only
to run back to each place
I don’t want to be.