He searched for the things that made him happy
in the backs of closets
and underneath garden stones,
brushing away the pillbugs and worms,
trying to find clarity.
He stood up and wiped his hands,
about to call it quits.
He saw her leaning against the car,
cup of coffee in one hand, keys in the other.
Wanted to help, she said,
but he knew from that stable lean against the bumper,
those slyly smiling shimmery lips,
that it didn't matter where they drove that day.
His happiness was bucked up next to him,
belting out Tiny Dancer,
not knowing she had the effect she did,
but hoping all along that that was the case.
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