Tin Can Basin

Headwaters of sorrows,
Imaginary, real
Name for a location

Stabilized by the name.
It’s a long ways from here,
A short burst in the brain—

Settlers, mines, and tourists,
Boom, bust, and long decline
To a few seedy towns,

Trailers, public lands pocked
With wildcat camper vans,
Vacation log mansions

For the heli-ski set,
And bug-out bunkers for
Apocalyptic rich—

North American West.
Hardy bicyclists ride
The whole spine up to Banff,

For competitive fun,
To prove themselves against
Climates, hazards, steep change.

To the north end of it,
Just sit, thinking about
Roads south—changes, what’s same—

What’s burning, what’s flooded,
How many dead from drink,
Guns, roads, or radium.

At the height of the Han,
When the glory was Rome’s,
When the sun never set

On Britannia’s rule,
Similar things were true
In their hearts of empire—

Seedy tin mines, vacant
Settlements, poverty,
Escape homes of the rich.

It’s a long way, long time
Tying up all of it,
But in the mind, a twitch.