Running from Hillman

red-handed and sleep-deprived 

we stole beets from the garden née

cabbage patch by The Porch;

a kindness, a red reminder—

that hour of night just before 

morning, when the essay’s

been written and the coffee cold

— cup nearly empty 

between my palm and yours;

Run, honey.

honey, we’re beet thieves now,

nowhere to hide but 

here,