Happiness

or on the other hand the manner in which it turns up like an prodigal

who returns to the residue at your feet

having wasted a fortune far away.

And, in what manner can you not pardon?

You make a dining experience out of appreciation for what

was lost, and assume from its position the best

article of clothing, which you put something aside for an event

you couldn't envision, and you sob night and day

to realize that you were not deserted,

that happiness spared its most extraordinary structure

for only you.

No, happiness is the relative you never

thought about, who flies a solitary motor plane

onto the green runway, bums a ride

into town, and asks at each entryway

until he discovers you sleeping mid afternoon

as you so regularly are during the unmerciful

hours of your misery.

It goes to the priest in his cell.

It goes to the lady cleaning the hall way

with a birch sweeper, to the kid

whose mother has gone out from beverage.

It goes to the sweetheart, to the pooch biting

a sock, to the pusher, to the crate creator,

what's more, to the representative stacking jars of carrots

in the night.

It even goes to the rock

in the unending shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the vast ocean,

to the wineglass, tired of holding wine

This post can also be found on my whaleshares blog