The Long Run
It is good sometimes to drop a plumb-line
to the basement and find subsidence;
lie prone in a crawlspace tearing your knees
and encounter dessicated mice;
hold your hand against the seams of a house
and feel the cold air seep.
To be reminded, I mean, of the long run,
and of decay, of how after an evening jog
and heart attack a man at dawn
will find your body
hold his dog at bay
and empty out your wallet
before calling the police.
Secretly Ironic 