A Solitary Family of Happiness

Happy is the child of hap – a hapless happenstance

engendered in the lap of luck. Fluctuating weather

of the soul that spins the thing of you and keeps

it in the bowl. Your luck is always good.

You’ve never not been happy.

Always good? you bray – stupefied too many ways,

you say, remotely to convey the full array of fact

that proves I’m full of crap. Never not been

happy? Always in a state of bliss?

Kiss my abyss.

To me it’s merely this. I imagine I’ve a choice: a voice

in granting all irregularities to coexist – peculiarities

to feed and interbreed. Which of course they

always and already do. I permit the fiction

to get underway that I have agency

in the maneuvering of me – soon to see to my abject

delight I don’t. And oh, the gorgeous fleet release

in knowing that I can’t and won’t be able

to direct a thing. Since things don’t

need direction or a pep-talk-

patting-on-the-back (nor penises instruction in erection,

come to that), inevitably awkwardly assembled

as they are by what the cosmic dice begat,

I’ve never not exactly been what I will

always be: a this and that.

Which hap’ly I acknowledge as the child I have fathered/

mothered/sired/suckled into hapless happenstance.

Randomly a wild desperado, mild model

of finesse and sappy mess. I am

a solitary family of happiness.

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