In the Runaway's House

She left her bicycle on its side,

the grey fur of the basement growing

on the spokes, the kickstand in the air.

But you keep finding her

the way you come upon a coin or pen

lodged between the cushions of a chair.

Go ahead, hang new curtains in her bedroom,

but you won't break off this thread

between your teeth;

you can paint the walls a different color

and empty the drawers and shelves,

but you can't close the door to this room.

No matter what you do

she keeps taking you by surprise

like the metal hangers jangling in her closet.

Whenever the phone rings, or the doorbell,

you can see her long hair and tinted glasses,

can hear the silk ruffle of her voice.

She's unchanged-the same smile,

the same shirt and faded jeans she left in

fifteen years ago.

Sometimes from the hall, you even see her

at the dressing table, her back to you,

her left hand brushing out her hair,

while like Perseus she is looking at you

in the mirror. She'll never stop,

never get the knots out.

She's fastened in your mind

like a photograph in your album or lines

in a letter that you've read too many times.