The Heart Attacks

 

This appeared in Poetry Proper

High above Denver, itself taller than Wales,

we attempt the ordinary for its

postcard values — lunch a picturesque burger,

a cup of coffee to make Wordsworth ooh.

And the heart attacks, then retreats, no more

to be cajoled. It sounds taps. The Dead March.

And the mountains smile at a bag of chips,

2 boys holding hands, the belly-button

ring of the busy barista. Good grief,

it follows good night, the morrow not

a bit like the last. We are closer here

to the sun. We burn easily. We heed

hydration. We needed a refreshed start.

Now you‘ve a cage to hold open your heart.

The blood rushes home, leaves, goes home again,

back to the valleys where the coal burns slowly.