A Little Boy With Good Pitch

It is Joy who is singing,

I should put away my own efforts,

to listen.

I can only just hear,

since perfect breeze masks the song

and the source is far

away.

Still,

a note

or two

gets through.

The filthy television knows

we are paused between missile strikes

for a moment

and

business is on holiday,

somewhere that is

too expensive

for ordinary

folk.

I can laugh at the king,

with his raised whip.

Go ahead,

strike me.

I know there is no promise of

anything,

no matter whose gold ink

signs.

For this instant,

it is Joy

who is singing,

in a strange language

that I hear too little of

yet

plenty enough.