I’ve only been there once and it wasn’t what I expected
from the West, to have Ragtime raging out of Coalhouse
within David’s concert hall in Caerdydd, as Mother lost
her way back from the beginning of moving pictures
and father didn’t stop to think about all he was leaving
behind as he set sail across a sea that certainly wasn’t Irish.
I recall it was cold, not cold like the icy eyes of underground
in London and I bought myself a postcard that held many
more consonants than I’d ever be able to fit into my mouth.
Perhaps the appearance of Houdini on a simple Sunday night
in October, in that mighty little hall of amplified cacophony
and its outwardly angled concrete induced those first lights
that were the co-conspirators to the skull crushing, mashed-
between-mattresses murderous migraine that moved in,
albeit unabashedly uninvited, to the constricted chaos
of my 7th floor hotel room head, now severely overbooked.
I’ve only been once to Cardiff, where I toppled every time
I tried to say Caerdydd but I won’t forget it; with its baritones
of Broadway belting out over all those big broad road signs
that held too many letters to read before I’d past them all by
like father on that boat, going out and not thinking about
what he would come back to and mother, and later, I, blinded
by all that was in movement before the lights within our eyes.