To each clip of two teenage boys who dance
together in public places, joy
in their serious faces, joy
in each articulated twist of neck,
each synchronized pop of wrist and knee.
To the librarian, his dark hair a wild and
curly halo surrounding his angelic face
as he narrates of kids helping each other.
To each second spent listening
to the mischievous bass player
in his small kitchen with friends
as they saute noodles
and belt out Fly Me to the Moon.
To my daughter who sends me
cats crawling into impossibly small spaces
and finding happiness there,
the way I, even now, I climb into
this small rectangle in my hand
and curl into the surprising happiness
of a red-headed boy with a lilting voice
in a bright yellow raincoat
walking me through a forest
and showing me hen of the woods
and a clutch of orange mushrooms,
life thriving in a world so damp somehow
my own cheeks are now wet.