People sometimes ask me am I happy. When I tell them
they’re asking the wrong question
they look at me strange or fall
into an odd silence as I explain
(again) that the word “happy”
is (like every other word)
abused and used loosely
by people trying to simplify
situations that are really
not so simple as to be explained
with a couple of soft syllables
made mute by far too many
greeting cards.
So then I tell them
(because they asked)
that I love my wife
and I own my car
along with
every stick of furniture
in the house; I tell them
rent gets paid and the lights come on
and I usually eat (at least)
one good meal a day
and can afford beer and a bottle
of cheap scotch when I want one. Then
I go on and tell them
I sleep well at night
(when I sleep) and that my dreams
are vivid and linger when I wake up
each morning, and that
even on a bad day,
I can manage to splice a few
well considered words together
that, to my surprise,
I don’t hate.
