Runaway

I’m leaving the city—
I’ve said it before—
but this time I mean it.
Let me go.
Pink smoke pours from buildings.
Pink haze fills the park.
In the streets walk pink people
I don’t know.
I’ll go to Australia
(or to Grandma Jean’s)
where kangaroos play
in the fields.
Where zephyrs shake leaves,
and the air smells sweet,
and nobody makes
yucky meals.
I’m leaving the city—
I’ve said it before—
I’m leaving the city…
Will you open the door?