Why does a dog chew a bone

or a cat toy a string

why do people do anything

other than sing—

why does sitting alone

in a park, on a bench

have to feel so good

when nothing makes sense,

but the sound of laughter

and a boy up to bat

while his father he cheers

hearing the crack

and the shadows with grace

dance light over page

of a passage familiar

as if written for me—

it’s instinct of course

the cat toying string,

and by the end feels pleasure.

But people write poems

and think too much,

they suffer alone—

ironically.