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The stuff of escapists

Late evening. You frisk
down the road, around
the bend, then the next
until the sight of that
familiar town is almost
in sight. The air is light
like a body relieved
of its waste. Ah, the stuff
of escapists! The sweet
smell of freedom ripens
the atmosphere, greater
than any blossom from
the myriad mango trees
that stain yards like these.
The night will end
in conversation:
the reasoning of men-
the reason we converge
away from women
to release the waste of days
spent fretting over the free-
dumb they've stolen from us.

Copyright © 2017 Nicholas Alexander

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