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.