Friday, July 11, 2014

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.