to beat the froggiest

of morning voices,

my boy gets out of bed

and takes a lumpish song

along—a little lyric

learned in kindergarten,

something about a

boat. He’s found it in

the bog of his throat

before his feet have hit

the ground, follows

its wonky melody down

the hall and into the loo

as if it were the most

natural thing for a little

troubadour to do, and lets

it loose awhile in there

to a tinkling sound while

I lie still in bed, alive

like I’ve never been, in 

love again with life,

afraid they’ll find me

drowned here, drowned 

in more than my fair

share of joy.