Free Verse
Where's Joy?
"Where's Joy?" she called. I knew she meant her daughter. But it felt desperate. Maybe through my rose-tinted ears it mirrored or echoed or conflated my own desperate plea into the world. Conventional experts on such matters would suggest the sun shining down on this green and blue land. Or the laugh of children at play, without a care for where their lives might head in days and years to come. Yet others— strange blind people— might suggest it's in the demonocracy they rely on to set matters straight. Even if those matters are battles over the safe passage through a perilous section of water most hadn't heard of before. Where's Joy? In the naked embrace between lovers? Frolicking. Do we frolic enough, like we're on Little House on the Prairie? Frolicking is harder to do in the face of everything and everyone. But does it diminish it? Yes. But no. But always barefoot. On the sand. The field. Or in the pool. Who wears shoes to a pool? Commies? Putin? He dips down, balls first, squatting with a wide thigh gap and double dips. The greedy little fucker. Putin the time and effort to make sure your balls are not shrivelled from all that you do before you double dip the testes in the Volga. Genitals point to the vulva— or asshola, you angry old dwarf.
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
