Prose Poem: A poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

 

As I walked home from the Rec Center

I passed the mailman on the uneven

cement sidewalk;

The cement slabs frozen

in storm-tossed frenzy. 

He smiled at me and nodded.

"Gee, the mail is going out early today"

I said happily to myself.

And suddenly, 

without any external compulsion

or evident reason,

I became a happy man.

Happiness welled up inside of me

like a Texas gusher --

lifting me up into the clear

blue sky, soaked clean through

with a thorough delight in my 

surroundings.

Twin cottonwoods stood

sentinel at the next street corner;

the grass lay grizzled around them

with thick fuzz.

This, too, seemed right and good --

just the way things ought to be

on a fine day in late spring,

with brown summer haze hovering just

beyond the mountains.

"This sure beats being 

poked in the eye

with a sharp stick" 

I told a robin looking for

worms under a lilac bush.

He cocked his head

and stood his ground.

I was grateful for his

trust in me.

When I got home I mailed

a check to UNICEF.

Then I threw out 

all my medications

and went out on the patio

to count the colors in

the driveway gravel.