Striding with a show of purpose into yet another day
which (by the only meaning ‘day’ had ever had for you)
existed solely to present new opportunities to shape
the virtuously laden thing you called The Destiny of Me,
that moralistic brat Freud called the Superego blundered
out from under your poor psyche’s battered hat and for
a moment barred your way. This guardian of shame
and comme-il-faut had not however come to blame you
for your cowardice or self-inflicted woe or all your tours
of unforgivably transgressive sex but rather to announce
that it itself had had enough of sin and wasn’t interested
in further monitoring yours. Then it vanished in a poof.
Like someone took the roof off, let the sun in – Pharrell
Williams’ Happy Song without its threat of endless repetition.
And you hadn’t felt a single reason to express contrition!
What meanings now adhered to ‘destiny’ or ‘day’? But that
and every question like it had just morphed into a glimmer
of a substanceless benignity, and sighed itself away.