Yellow tape surrounds half the street, torn up
by heavy construction equipment.
In the back, bald patches on the roof show
where shingles have fallen. A block away,
yellow scaffolding climbs an old building
being deconstructed. From the corner,
it appears there is little or nothing
left inside. All the guts have been scavenged
and recycled, moving on to new lives.
We climb the stairs to my daughter’s place.
She is a newlywed, having eloped
last month, and I haven’t seen her since then.
We’re here for dinner, and (I hope) to watch
the wedding video. They eloped, I heard,
in part because someone was done waiting
and made all the arrangements — from planner
to limo, and everything in between.
Makes it hard to say “no”, especially
if you don’t really want to. Romantic,
actually. She was a beautiful bride
if eccentric, all in a low-cut black,
skin traced with lacy color, lines, symbols.
What I noticed most was the way her eyes
darted from place to place in the dark room,
swift as a bird’s shifting from point to point,
nervous, returning more and more often
to that one place where she finds calm, settling
like a wild thing into trust without being tamed.