When my daughter said
that she was terrible at soccer
but enjoyed the camp anyway
and couldn’t wait to go back,
I nearly jumped out of my chair
and boomed Yes with a fist pump,

but not wanting to risk the moment
by inserting myself in it, I simply
nodded and muttered 
something benign, like that’s great,

and went back to my book
which was some self-help bible
I’d paid good money for
written by an esteemed guru
with an alphabet after his name 
who’d spent a lifetime of study
to offer instruction I knew, 
just ten pages in,
I’d never put into practice

while sitting on the floor
not ten feet away, playing with dolls,
was a child who’d discovered
the secret to happiness
in just three hours of chasing 
a black and white ball.