Runaway

A bus token jingles 
against the nickels and dimes 
in the pocket of his Pendleton coat 
as he lingers at the door 
of the Salvation Army 
bookstore and wonders, if he enters, 
what new thing will happen to his soul? 
Will it fold itself up like the city map 
now lined more with creases 
than with the streets he’s yet to search 
for someone who might know her 
who might have seen the face 
that haunts him like a shadow of the one 
reflected in the storefront glass 
looking back with empty eyes 
through words that spread 
like ink across his brain: 
all romance twenty-five cents