The Lame Dog at Monyash

Its black unopenable door
is what the village really thinks.
Virgil's native name sits on the plaque,
licensed to bid your welcome nixed

to afternoons of Lethe Best
and tightness in the chest and neck
brought on by pressure at the desk
you work at to afford the move.

You should consider going back.
You'll never join the Us of Here,
or even Them of Over-There.
The locals all have history.

The white limestones are fixed
in ragged and deceitful smiles
across miles of saturated green
with paradisal lambs between

that bleat that things are looking bleak
and maybe you should ask your kids
about the role of revenant.
Leaving, you pass the desolate farms.

Their huge prefabricated sheds
proclaim the names of local firms,
contain fence posts, rusting plant,
oil drums, doomed livestock.