I remember, as a child,clasping my knees
and watching in delight
when something really extraordinary happened --
my father being silly
(a rarity indeed);
the first time I saw a television;
my first Disney movie;
my friends putting on a play;
the cat chasing his tail --
almost anything could be a source of pleasure;
could make me sit,
clutching my old stuffed bear
and grinning at the joy of it.
Where does that joy go
when we get old, pockmarked,
rusty and worn?
Or is it still there,
waiting to burst forth,
a pent up river of laughter
ready to break through some societal dam?
* * *
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