Long ago, in her cramped office, a therapist, Polly,
asked me if I was afraid to be happy
and I laughed. Afraid? No, sweet
lady, I’m not
scared of joy. In fact,
I try to find it where I can:
under halogen parking lot lights,
in salty sweet snack food that is bad for me,
in people who are bad for me. That’s why
I ignore your texts, because you are
too nice, too far away from home,
to be bad
for me. Maybe
if you were high-cal and hateful,
I’d be there?