The sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, and the familiar groan of a nearby lawn mower were like fine wine to my nostrils and music to my ears.
After a five-year stretch on the inside, living on the run is freedom, but also hell. A Darwinian existence. One step worse than death.
With no change of clothes, I stink from my own piss, shit, and sweat, and when I sleep on the ground ants and blowflies crawl on my face—thinking I’m dead the blowflies try to lay eggs on my flesh.
I’m running low on food, only eating what I can steal from stores or scavenge from dumpsters.
My drinking water comes from a building’s downspout or from a nearby drainage ditch.
I’m wanted by the long arm of the law—for escaping custody for a murder charge that I didn’t commit.
Some say it may be a better life in jail, so I should to turn myself in.
But what do they know?
Certainly it would be better than this life I have now.
But this way is my way, and this way, even if I die on the streets and my soul is carried across the great divide by a flock of crows, it’s better than giving my body and soul to the cowardly FBI.
I’m like a Coyote, escaping capture, always on the run, but at least I’m free.
- Poet Stoker