Happy Hour

I overheard a young man in a suit tell his friends

"this is the hardest-earned happy hour"

as they hurried by me in the summer rain.

It wasn't heavy rain but still, no doubt,

a threat to Tuesday's polish on their leather shoes.

The phrasing struck me.

How many happy hours have been earned, and at what price?

I thought of countless other lives, less easy, 

the cost of their brief happinesses.

Perhaps I am unfair. Joy isn't earned.

Like summer rain it falls on anyone 

with a hand to cup or an ear to hear 

or a warm skin to prickle with delight.

I feel suddenly tender toward that thirsty boy,

wilting already, so early in the week.

It's not his fault that desert plants must know
how to make every
drop

count.