Safe

After 3 days free on the street, 

I was returned to parental custody.

Then they punished me for my escape—

age 13, to places safer than home, like a motel, 

a garage floor, under a laundromat table, 

like Dave’s kitchen eating rigatoni with his family—

Father demanded I surrender 

the t-shirt I always wore,

a souvenir from performing in the 7^th grade play.

He claimed it symbolized my rebellion and deceit,

said I would not eat till I handed it over.

The next day, I couldn’t protect it anymore. 

He threw it in the fireplace—I watched it fade 

just to get a damn tuna sandwich.