A pair of young women gathered
on a dingy corner in little Bellevue,
singing playful earworms,
reciting lines from Hamlet—
infecting joy where joy was due,
where it had seeped through cracks in dry concrete
into the current of the muddy river nearby.

Joy blossomed in song
and in “To be or not to be,”
creeping up old gutters,
flowering into dainty petals
that gave off a pleasant aroma.

Joy crept over the fence,
crossed the street,
and reached the formidable man
outside the Liquor King—
who yelled, “Get the fuck away!”
from beside his mighty steed,
a hair-raising black 4×4,

guarding his post
and his paper bag
with everything his larynx could give.

Surely, the king of trucks
could benefit
from joy’s gentle presence—
but he’s not ready
for that conversation.