The Backdoor to Freedom
I changed my trajectory,
left a lifestyle without saying a word,
escaped a career
through the backdoor
because of a steady numbness
creeping through my body
I didn’t want to die
like my staggering co-workers,
another casualty at an office park,
hunched over a desk
inside a cubicle of misfortune
like those who receive gold watches
and not much else
I took a chance like Kerouac
I hitched a ride out west
with a crooked thumb,
went from Barstow to Lompoc,
and ended up at a fleabag hotel,
a fifth of whiskey,
typing my memoir
on an old Smith-Corona.