How is this “joy” question
the hardest to answer?
I could spit hundreds of verses,
and still read hundreds fancier.

I have no way to see joy—
besides the elusive glimpse.
Each night, under every moon,
the freedom of no job to do since
the long-gone high expectations vanished,
leaving my smiles drawn from circumstance.

Joy escapes me as a runaway train,
while you can find joy in things—
from which— I’ll politely abstain.