It
wasn’t that he liked being miserable.
He
simply had grown used to wearing
a
certain face, become comfortable
with
his assortment of shrugs and sighs.
His
friends said How are you?—
and
prepared their sympathy cards.
Miserable
was his style, his insurance
against
life’s frightening, temporary joys.
And
when the truly awful happened,
some
rejection or loss,
how
ready he was for its aftermath,
how
appropriate his posture, his words.
Yet
when she said she loved him
something
silently wild and molecular
began
its revolution; he would’ve smiled
if
the news from the distant provinces
of
his body had reached him in time.
He
frowned. And did not allow the short sigh
which
would have meant pleasure
but
now, alone, was just old breath
escaping,
the long ahhhh, that music
which
soothed him, and was his song.