Choices

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.