Poems are meant to be bleak.
They are meant to contain heartbreak,
death, disaster, despair.
They are meant to be shards of ice
or flaming fires;
shattered dreams or lost desires.
They are written to leave the reader
a little more miserable than before,
wishing they were dead
or someone else
or still in bed.
But today was a decent day:
you called, we laughed, it was all okay.
So I guess I can't write a poem about it.