Saturday, May 7, 2016

If I Could Make You Laugh

Irises, by Bud Cassiday


























If I could make you laugh, I would ask
little more of life today. Spontaneous delight—
oh, what a gift! I’d take a snicker or a giggle—
they’d suffice, but I’d keep trying for a show of
joy arising from your toes, alighting on your face
like butterflies and brightening your eyes.
What more of grace do I require; what else
is on the list that I present the planet with,
most of the time, but oxygen
and locomotion,
and a poached egg, buttered toast,
a cup of minestrone, coffee, and some
water from the tap, no ice—just that.

If I could make you laugh,
no diamonds, rubies, semiprecious stones;
exotic travels or expensive clothes
(which I confess a weakness for);
no shoes beyond the necessary two
(one foot apiece);
no country cottage on an acre with a
modest space for growing lettuce,
pumpkins, cucumbers, tomatoes, and
a few perennials—a show of crocuses in March
and daffodils in April, irises in May, with
buds of roses spilling through the fence and
promising lush flowers and sweet scents in June,
and daisies, bachelor’s buttons, and
chrysanthemums I could look forward to;
no chauffeur,
no masseuse;
for none of this would I exchange
a single second’s levity with you. If I were
Leno, then perhaps I’d have
a better chance, but as it is, a modicum of
silliness and whimsicality
must do, if I'm to
make you laugh.

Somewhere there are twenty angels
dancing on a blade of grass. I’ll seek them
out and ask them to come with me when I
tap upon your window in the evening. Inasmuch
as angels understand the secrets
of the universe, I needn’t say,
nor will they ask me why,
my highest happiness
would be
to laugh with you today.

--Mary Campbell
May 7, 2016


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