Play Your Hand

A joy so full it won’t fit

in a body. Like sound packed

in a trumpet’s bell, its glossy

exit retains that shape, printing

its curve in reverse on the ear.

A musical house, with more

children than you planned for,

a smallest hand, and fingers

of that hand closing on one

of yours, making a handle,

pulling the lever gaily

down, ringing in the first

jackpot of many, with coins

and cries, heavenly noise,

a crashing pile

of minor riches—

And if the worst thing imaginable

were to happen

where does the happiness

go?

The melody flown

(where?), you think you wouldn’t

live one more day.

But you would.

Days don’t stop.

You toss your glove at the moon,

you don’t know what

may come down.