Therapy in the breaking down
of cardboard boxes, the breeze
whisking through a street I will
never invite you, pull this panel
and what seemed sturdy falls free,
stacked cleanly for pickup
as I turn to head home,
make home.
My friend asks whether I believe
there is a difference between happiness
and joy, and I decide yes,
happiness more of a beautiful
happenstance, joy a practice
quietly nurtured, tidying up the
rooms within us to make room
for our souls to sway in peace.
This will be a story of joy, so I
keep no clutter in the cabinets
and drawers, sharp-cornered
memories thudding dully into
the mouths of trashbags,
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,
and the learning against to trust
bare feet on the tile,
closed eyes, dancing softly,
paying no mind to all the glass shards
pulled out in those yesterdays.
michael king 