This city fingers greatness

like Bach’s sons in the shadow

of their father’s sonatas;

that’s what I now love—

it’s more mediocre genius;

less space for monuments

means more room for aged couples

with hair shamelessly dyed,

their bodies bend and bulging

in perfect two part harmony

as they dance to synthetic music

beneath the brooding peacocks

of Campo Grande.

Here is a very normal heaven

overlooked by our bulimic cameras.

Here are well worn steps

and arthritic grace

and flat conversation

made spectacular simply

the addition of hands and intonation.

Likely some of these paunchy husbands

have hit some of these stocky wives.

Possibly vice versa.

Yet somehow that reinforces

this salvation in Valladolid

on Sunday evenings.

There’s a love beyond all therapy

that habitually holds on.

And show me a single child,

old or young,

that doesn’t need to be held.