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