For an hour today, she practices escaping
from the stairs. There is no jail here,
only our pretense of bars. She,
the bank robber. I the police.
I lock her up again with my invisible
jail cell key. Then I swallow the key,
I throw it away, but she always produces another,
an invisible skeleton key she’s been hiding
somewhere around her and she lets
herself out again, then hovers nearby
to be caught. I feign dismay. She’s
escaped, again! And search for her,
looking right through her. Until,
aha! I say, and grab her. She never
struggles much, almost hurls her body
at me to be caught. So similar to
how I want to be held, forever,
I say, and then the next moment
I long for escape. Oh sweet
imagination, how real it all can seem,
like this girl slipping away from the stairs,
saying for the fourteenth time, catch me again.
I don’t know who’s sillier: the robber or the jailer.
To be accepted like that, especially when being “caught” over and over and over again. Seven times seventy times?
I’m glad you linger so long in the poem over the antics of the situation, which is such a pleasure to watch unfold. I think it deepens the attempt to close on a broader, more universal note.