Happiness cannot be expressed
because we all think it’s phony.
Thank you, Gerry Mulligan, the Irishman
playing blues in New York, putting
bebop into dixie—or was it the other way round?
In that case you really were kind.
Let your humming baritone be
the voice of a sudden friend
in the middle of Los Angeles
or clouds breaking over the coastline
where Highway 1 shines like a string
gone slack out of the basin.
Whatever it was you found there
I hope to God it still exists. We could all
use a little happiness without the ubiquitous
irony of eyes not seeing eyes,
sincere expressions of insincerity,
and a new track mark to conceal.