The poem which shows you I’m happy—
What could be more important than this?
Put misery on the scales, the history of misery,
Miserable history; nothing outweighs the loveliness of bliss.
But how can I prove I’m happy? Is it love?
Or something even simpler I’m feeling here?
Lazy and sleepy, okay with death, a complete and total absence of fear?
The television on, but I’m not watching, children
And spouse, not having to worry about me;
Together, a rapt coziness; imprisoned, yet free.
It’s an illusion, isn’t it? It will not last.
But wait. No. I’m happy. I am. The poem.
Is the poem finally proof? Because this will never be the past?