Happiness Business: Beth Kephart Poem

This happiness business of yours being
nearly complete, being
I’m not saying
swagger or stomp,
not claiming
the rogue refutation of what
(may we speak honestly?)
is still life as we know it—
which is to say steady on no feet,
and too lovely and perceptible
to save itself.

That is not what I said
or not what I would have said
had you not, again,
been heading out the door—
your cap gyroscoped back
on your head,
your assurances
nineteen years old
and clever,
your words tossed
over the sudden brawn
of your shoulder:
Don't worry it will be late so I won’t wake you.

Absolutely not:
Wake me.

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