An Off-course Wind

She wore bad manners, the sort

granted by age and eminence

She broke into the house one sticky

noon and pirouetted on my table

And she delighted at our chimes

And tried herself against lamps and frames

and annoyed she turned to me:

she had tales and dust of miles

and sadly resting

sang of love and protégés unfaithful

and she disliked the people with me

who would not greet her
And I drank of this unraveling

then gruffly she turned

but gave me time enough

to pack my books and laundry.