Happiness
after Raymond Carver
What can I tell you about how it feels – apart from
when an old dog has plodded slowly across the room,
lumbered up the short jump onto the ancient beige couch
that’s covered in years’ worth of dog hairs no vacuum removes
so they can flop down, there beside you, as you nestle into your seat
that’s perfectly moulded to buttocks that have sat in that same corner
for as many years as the dog has been around, and then the dog
gives you one look with those swimming puppy-dog brown eyes,
lays his chin in your lap, and makes a harrumph kind of noise,
your hand moving, instinctively, a reflex, to rest on top of his head.
His eyes close and that ragged old tail gives two brief thumps.
That’s what it – happiness – feels like. Yours. His. Just that.
Emily Tee lives in the Midlands. Her poetry appears online and in print, including in The Madrid Review and The Nuthatch Press’s Wild Roots anthology. She has a mini pamphlet due in late 2026 with Atomic Bohemian. Instagram: @Emteepoetry