The Trickle-Down Theory of Happiness

By Philip Appleman b. 1926 Philip Appleman

Out of heaven, to bless the high places,   

it falls on the penthouses, drizzling   

at first, then a pelting allegro,

and Dick and Jane skip to the terrace   

and go boogieing through the azaleas,   

while mommy and daddy come running   

with pots and pans, glasses, and basins   

and try to hold all of it up there,

but no use, it’s too much, it keeps coming,   

and pours off the edges, down limestone

to the pitchers and pails on the ground, where   

delirious residents catch it,

and bucket brigades get it moving   

inside, until bathtubs are brimful,   

but still it keeps coming, that shower   

of silver in alleys and gutters,

all pouring downhill to the sleazy   

red brick, and the barefoot people   

who romp in it, laughing, but never   

take thought for tomorrow, all spinning   

in a pleasure they catch for a moment;   

so when Providence turns off the spigot   

and the sky goes as dry as a prairie,

then daddy looks down from the penthouse,   

down to the streets, to the gutters,   

and his heart goes out to his neighbors,   

to the little folk thirsty for laughter,   

and he prays in his boundless compassion:   

on behalf of the world and its people   

he demands of his God, give me more.

Philip Appleman, “The Trickle-Down Theory of Happiness” from New and Selected Poems, 1956-1996. Copyright © 1996 by Phillip Appleman. Reprinted with the permission of the University of Arkansas Press, www.uapress.com.

Source: Poetry (August 1983).