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.