In relative shades,
the true fugitives
limp along
by the side of the road
toward a mirage lottery.
Winter masquerades as a season
but there is more
to this frozen barrier:
timid blue jays in April,
pale children in July,
ex-lovers in September
and the mistake of superficial color
that is raked in late autumn.
In bar room kitchens
the exhaust fans
don’t play favorites.
Once inside
when the hinges
of memory speak,
it only ages:
in musty clothes,
weathered skin
and liquor parched lips.
These days
exits
aren’t graceful.