For the first time in years
He began to talk with his daughter
By telephone. When she left home,
She broke off almost all contact,
Except for a postcard once from Rome,
Her favorite city, and another from Wales,
Where she lived for a few years.
She learned the art of very short emails,
But took offence at something he said
And never sent another. He was glad,
At least, to know she wasn’t dead.
Not a word about what she did
To pay the rent. He thought she
Probably worked on a farm, and hid
From the world, as was her wont.
She was his lost child, who spent
Ten years of her life in a hunt
For what had always been hers.