21, 21, 21, repeating

There is joy bursting at the seams,
I don’t know how dogs hold themselves together.
Glee,
like put of my stomach,
like back of my throat.

The normal kind of weird glee.

Laughter kind of
silly glee.

Now, make a coffee,

and move on, move on.

2/21/2021

PoetryRiley Welch