Down The Hall

I see her at the end of a hall, a lot,
with live green leaves on the wallpaper,
dark down a long corridor, but she’s light
as if she carries it in her bloodstream,
and she’s dancing with pointed toes,
never quite disappeared until I follow.
Sometimes her hair’s gone to grey
the color of volcanic ash, burnt rock,
and it lays wiry alongside cheeks,
drawn in and lined, shadow eyes,
as if she’s getting older, too. Or,
she’s always been this age.
My old mystery friend.
Might as well try to rope her
as write about her. Skittish
as any other wild animal,
knowing so well what men do,
what we’re after.