for Ross Gay

Sitting at the stoplight, I watch the clouds move, wishing I was somewhere out in nature: the park, the woods, the childhood farm where I grew up, where I used to spread on my back on the grass with my sister and look up, naming clouds, in all their shapes and sizes. It’s a cold day, wet, and I imagine my back yard, the soppy leaves that mob my lawn, the work I need to do to make it less sloppy. My neighbor’s raked his leaves, the piles resting by the curb; and the neighbor next to him has raked his too. As the light turns green, I move my Honda forward, heading to doggie daycare to pick up my dog Venus. My shoulder is a switchboard. I turn right, my muscles twitching ever since my swim earlier this morning. On the speakers, I hear a book about delights, and I try to be delightful, thinking of swimming with my friend, her thanking me for coming to her mother’s funeral. I had to cross the border; the drive was two hours each direction. I had a book of more delights to hear. I was delighted to see my friend’s son who lives in Hawaii, her daughter who lives in the Carolinas, her brother, who lives in Nova Scotia. I was delighted to have met them all last year in Nashville at her daughter’s wedding. I’m delighted to hear the speaker of the book talk about the delights of his coffee, folks remembering his name, the delight of giving every student in his classes a big fat A, and he can since he has tenure. I think: how delightful! Maybe I’ll give all my students As. I wonder if they’d come to class, if they’d blow me off, if they’d give evaluations. The speaker calls assignments invitations. How delightful, I think, as I turn into the lot. The doggie daycare is delightful: every time I enter the workers are so friendly, saying hello, telling me how lovely it is to have some time with Venus. When the worker brings out Venus, Venus jumps on me gently, giving me her kisses. Hello there, V, I say, sure to pet her, taking time to rub behind her ears so she knows that she’s delightful.