I want to be
the gun in my fathers hand. I want to be the wrong name on his wrist, I want to be his index finger I want my father's jean jacket. I want to be my father's. I want to be my father.
his black jeans, wayfarers, white loafers, wool pullover sweaters smell of cigarettes and cold.
I want to be He who exits the hatch.
The lamp he was given casts shadows on his face. He clicks it off before He slings his pack over his shoulder, spits and lights a cigarette (brand name: "Marlboro Red" in the states "This" back home) For a moment, he feels like a Movie Star Cowboy.
He finishes his smoke; and without adieu, in a puff of Red American dust,, he'a off again - swooping up and galloping off on his trusty 1042 into the darkness.
His Goal: get far away from that jet and tourist trap full of humans as fast as he can, and to stop for disinfectant; to run...as far into the future as his wife'll let him before she gets upset with him. (But he know's that's because she worries-? Then it'll be just her and the little one...) He told himself he'd stop and dial to her in ten, no - fifteen minutes.
Anyway, he thought, exhaustedly: Peace Grimy Earthlings. I really hope you figure it out.