The dog’s snarling kept waking him every time

Every time he closed his eyes. How he had escaped

Only someone else’s God knew.

And apart from one small incident, no harm done.

One dead prison guard, his fault for having eyes.

Providence had provided him with an escape,

Though hard fought: those devil dogs had almost caught him with

The breath that could strip paint from five yards

(Which was only slightly better than his own prison breath)

Had been beating down his neck till he found the station.

Providence once more aided him, a fifty just sat there

The President staring up at him, urging him to take it,

Possibly dropped by that wet looking tourist, or that crying idiot

But not the black woman constantly knitting.

Nor the girl, they both looked too careful for that.

He thought about his next move, the police would know.

Would providence provide another route for him?

As the bus turned into the next town he saw the chance,

He picked the pocket of the boy opposite.

He smiled and whispered to himself, thank you son, I hope you enjoy your stay.

Ian D. Hall. First published in Greyhound Tales.