Friedrich Schiller called Joy the spark of divinity,
but she visits me on a regular basis,
and it doesn’t take much for her to appear—
the salt next to the pepper by the stove,
the garbage man ascending his station
on the back of the moving garbage truck,
or I’m just eating a banana
in the car and listening to Buddy Guy.
In other words, she seems down to earth,
like a girl getting off a bus with a suitcase
and no one’s there to meet her.
It’s a little after 4 in the afternoon,
one of the first warm days of spring.
She sits on her suitcase to wait
and slides on her sunglasses.
How do I know she’s listening to the birds?