My tennis partner overslept,
And missed our Friday morning match.
"So sorry!" he texted. "What do y0u want to do?"
"Shit, I got to go to work," I wrote.
And rode home in the scowling joy of being the wronged one, this time—
So clearly, so completely—I am terribly busy and my tennis partner is retired!—
That joy that smells like your own richest, smokiest, most delicious fart.