Rush, rush, out the door,

trip on the mat, urging,

“Hope you brought wine,”

then hurl yourself across the street,

open the car door,

hit the gas,

speed through town,

hit the brakes,

open the car door,

trip on the curb, impediment

to the pace of the next gig,

flying by,

screaming at the back of your neck,

run, run, run for your life,

as if you could,

as if the hurt never touched

down in your cells,

fueling a body on the move,

a mind at odds with feet

that rush, rush,

out the door

avoiding

evading

eluding

coming home.