One great advantage of your cynicism,
you might say, is that it takes
very little to get you happy, that
because you always prepare for the worst
and cross your fingers for the best, you have
somehow purchased for yourself a certain
measure of immunity from sorrow.
Except that those days you’ve purchased
seem to find you on your toes for most
of your waking hours, and at night you
couldn’t sleep soundly on your back.
Except there are more and more moments
when you suspect that insouciance
is not the same thing as joy.