The Place We Ran From

Fifty-seven years ago my grandfather’s only commitment was to his keys and the concrete in his wheels.
He didn’t tap the brakes until a pretty redhead asked him to stay home,
Then he shut off his running engine but left it in neutral in case it needed to roll.
After a broken clavicle, a nosebleed, and four boys his memory of the pretty red head in the white dress
Became the vivid image of a rusted anchor swaddled in a strait jacket.
The fourth son too, had a love affair with the keys of his dirty pick-up.
He was bred to run away, but raised to find a nice, simple girl and settle down in a small town congregation.
He started running but he couldn’t cross the border while she was waiting at home.
The fourth son ran home instead, put his truck in park, got married.
Seven years later he had three children and took his wheels off, set the Ford on cinder-blocks.
Even if he ran away, he could never truly leave.
And now his oldest daughter is incapable of loving anything but her truck keys,
And I was bred, born, and raised to run.