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Poem

We are happy about the music,
a Mozart serenade that is not too dangerously deep.
Somewhere in the night
angels are falling off their nightmares,
black horse escaping on an ebbing tide.

Mozart is a skinny youth, his pink bubble gum
is happy, you can tell by the way his tongue pokes
through it, how he snicks the goo through
his front teeth.
Trick cyclists and other men in white tights
hold us spellbound, we beam happily
upturned faces shinning like full moons.

It is good to be radiantly irradiated from doubt,
cajoled by endless bouts of happiness.
The music is remembered as it plays 
within the small organic organs of our love.
Good that everything fits now with no sharp edges.
Good to be smoothly functioning
in such a non-challenging way.

A harlequin struts, then bows obsequiously,
we are happy that his triangulated 
three pronged hat can ring its little bells.

It is good to stand in the shallow end
and never feel the need to swim, sink or drown.
Good to rely on the orchestrated 
dispensing powers that be,
good to be this happiness
measured out in prepackaged cups
for ease of use and no unsightly waste.

The devil is in the very fine print,
nobody reads it, and the Cosmos of All Other Things
snores on. Happily, we sing of he and thee,
run to the television screens for reassurance, 
choose only the finest upholstery 
to keep us from sagging for another year.

Let the soothing play on
our world is not perfect, but its serenades 
are largely happy, and do not hound us out of our joy 
like other darker compositions do.

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