Everything is going right.
the job, the girl, etc. etc.
But it's Saturday night,
and I'm writing a poem.
That's probably a bad sign.

We get so caught up in being happy,
so happy to be employed,
so enthralled to be loved by somebody,
that we forget what it really means.

When I walk outside I see the stars,
but only if it's worth my time,
or the woman's by my side.
We walk and walk and talk and talk,
and I smile and nod and nod and smile,
but I always hear the part of the story
that ends with,
"I'm sure my dad could help with that."