Jack Kerouac’s Run

Running early
you can’t remember where
on Lowell’s back tracks,
with no I.D.
passport or papers,
only desiring to flee
for the Big Apple
to begin your sentence
in a dark Cedar Bar
and question God
or answer Marx.

But you exit
as any beachcomber
to Big Sur’s mouth
Jack, knifed with drink
handcuffed by a lexicon
still running after
a stab at one more day,
wishing to sing
among stones and stars,
just a Beat in his shoes.