The Old Guy You Always See
Joe Mills
We use to mock the man we called “Mr. Happy.”
You could see him at street fairs in his fedora,
slowly swiveling at the front of the stage.
Whatever the band was playing – jazz, rock, rap –
Mr. Happy would be up there, flowing,
some combination of 40s hipster and 60s hippie,
a knowing smile we insisted was from drugs.
Usually he was alone, but sometimes he lured
some poor woman to sway around with him.
Now, closer to his age, we better understand
the attraction of that space, the pull of the music,
the kind of things you surrender to be happy.
Joe Mills
We use to mock the man we called “Mr. Happy.”
You could see him at street fairs in his fedora,
slowly swiveling at the front of the stage.
Whatever the band was playing – jazz, rock, rap –
Mr. Happy would be up there, flowing,
some combination of 40s hipster and 60s hippie,
a knowing smile we insisted was from drugs.
Usually he was alone, but sometimes he lured
some poor woman to sway around with him.
Now, closer to his age, we better understand
the attraction of that space, the pull of the music,
the kind of things you surrender to be happy.