The artefacts of joy are so
mundane, as those of terror,
the CO.T.RAL bus, my boots
and walking stick, the watermelon
I was offered after lightning struck.
And all that fear some simple error
of exhalation, microscopic
regattas of serotonin, all that ilk,
never to be called mundane. I breathe
day in, night out. Some shout
carries across the valley, someone
running (it could be me) somewhere,
yet here I am, enduring this bright
intermission we call life. I’ve lived
not well, but brilliantly.
Sit at my feet, or better yet, let
me sit at yours and wash them as that once
she washed mine in the sink and then
went with me to the dark and frozen
meadow to light a firework.
The artefacts, the acts of joy.
I could fill all the books in the world
with what was instant, instance. So, too,
the mortal rapid dread:
one day, bright day, dismal, I’ll be dead.
Yet let me tell you now the truth:
old paint is falling where they scrape,
the air is shifting in its seat, I have
a second coffee and redemption, and
she strangely washed my feet.
