That dandelion ruining my yard is joy.
Stubborn yellow-headed joy
seeded months ago
by my lazy neighbor
and her gorgeous Dalmatian.
The gutterpunk asking me for change is joy.
Shamefaced shuffling joy
forcing me to dig in my pocket
and offer what change I’ve got.
I make sure to touch his palm.
The way my words come out all wrong is joy.
Awkward linguistic backflips
in the kitchen at midnight, meaning love
but saying only hurt. We come around
to love again, in time.