From The Top

Write me a happy poem, she says

but I’ve already written about whiskey

and the amber woman who touched my flesh

to leave her bruise;

Write me a happy poem, she says

but damn, I’ve already written about birds

the way they catch the air, turn their wings

into the wind, shoot skyward at an angle

you want more than that?

Write me a happy poem, she says

but hell, I’ve already written of other worlds

delicate ones, made of ash and lace

where the dead memories rise to hold hands

and do-si-do once again;

Write me a happy poem, she says

s**t, woman, I’ve already written of midnight

and the thick lush of dark where

alien stars hum down wisdom from

hundreds of light years beyond

the hip of Orion;

Write me a happy poem, she says

oh now wait, I think I get it

I don’t think I know what you think

happiness is…

maybe take it from the top?