Happiness is a Siren from the Land of the Unexpected

Today, driving to the library, awash amidst

honking horns and sweltering heat,

I turned right on Monroe

and felt the plastic pegs

holding down the bungee cords

of the sagging orange tent of myself

and my worries come up, out of the soil, like a sail,


and the stressful tent folded in on itself

and blew away,

some crazed orange flapping creature

wheeling down in the humidity,

against the blue sky, white clouds,

“good riddance,” I said,

and the sail passed by sleepily.

There wasn’t anything special about the moment;

I was driving to the library,

because I didn’t have to teach today.


But having the whole day to myself –

I felt like the moment was a cartoonishly large bed

That I could lay in after a long day

In an air-conditioned house

With dinner to look forward to,

Pillows the size of the clouds in the sky,

My own body as big as a chestnut tree

Stretching and sighing like some ancient satisfied walrus

In the large comfy bed of the moment,

care-free, nothing to worry about

except which books to take out of the library,

what poem to write, nothing to worry about

except those things.


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