Elopement

by Bill Griffin

When she was sixteen it meant a ring,
silver turning her finger dark,
and all the long drive home from South Carolina

she turned it round and around and imagined
days and nights with him, 21, the life
0they would make together and haven’t they ?

Clearly, clear as that June morning stepping out
of the courthouse door, clearly now he has just stepped out
and in a minute he’ll come right back.

Today she searches for him, she waits inside the door
that for some reason won’t open to her push,
waits and knows he’ll take her from this place

she recognizes is not her home, line of doors opening
into strangers’ bedrooms, woman in a uniform
pushing a cart and telling her she must take pills

clearly not meant for her.  This is why she hovers,
peers through the glass to trees and open sky beyond
the sidewalk, watching for a face she knows

will emerge from the next car that pulls up,
and when someone opens the door to enter
she will slip out, once more elope to find him.