I'm running away to the backyard.

I know that I'm supposed to be over 
the notion of running away at this point
but I have to admit that I have packed
two bags of Milano cookies-- three
potato rolls-- microwave mac & cheese
and three bags of Macintosh apples and
they bruise easily so I can
only trek to the area behind the garage
that I've always imagined as a garden.
Build my bed from dying dandy lion
firm-frost grass sofa--
and spear mint petal pillows   
And it's cold but I have a blanket.
I'm thinking over the next few years
I could build a life for myself
from the soil still 
laced with wires from the chicken
coup and vibrations from the 
throat of the cistern to keep me company.
I'll talk to the cicadas as I fall asleep.
We can call ourselves neighbors
if you want and if not I can make this
island of weed and quashed hula hoops. 
I tried this once before-- you know?
only I was in sixth grade and I had 
more Milano cookies and I had forgotten
a blanket. I lasted an hour
this time I might stay here for
two-- but night always makes house
windows look like home even if you don't know them--
we can find home somewhere and I
don't even eat Milano cookies anymore
but I know that you love them.
I'll be done running away soon
enough. I'll eat spear mint
and plant the seeds of the apples--
and I know it will never be a tree but I
can pretend it will be when I return
decades later.