The joke is on all of us.
It isn't a comfort.
It's a smothering.
When she said
that you get to choose
to be happy,
she hoped you'd take
the pail from beside
your inherited bed
and walk it to the stream,
the gentle beck that's just
"always been there."
But "always"
has no volume,
no weight,
no matter--
not anymore.
"Always" became a mist,
then it became a story.
This decision isn't a decision at all:
it's the pillow held over your face
until you slip away,
further and further and further away--
no volume, no weight, no matter,
just gone, like all of your choices.
