Fugitives

He finishes the drink
then spikes the bottle
sending green glass
all directions.
He scurries up
The wire fence
cutting his face
but makes it over.
The sirens close in
while he sprints
like mad through the alley.
His coattail follows him
like a brown ghost
with no face
until it catches
on a mailbox
and slides off.
He reaches
a gray car just as
a mother is climbing in
and pulls her out
breaking her fingers
as he rips away the keys.
It’s only thirty minutes later
on some backroad
where only wire towers run
that in the rear view he can see
a baby sleeping
like a smooth stone
in a clear stream.