The Happiness Poem

He asked me to write 

a poem about happiness.

“sure,” 

I said in a text, 

and put my phone down.

A poem about . . . 

“happiness”

I felt the subtle warmth of a cold panic

slowly rise up my spine.

Or was that inspiration 

as the two can be confused at times. 

Times like these 

are often confusing.

If there is such a thing as inspiration, 

more than spiraling hot air, 

more than a spiritual backdrop 

that covers the unsightly plumbing 

that I would actually rather see than 

a brochure of promises

that the ideas will come 

if you wait for them.

I once let someone

bust a hole in my 

hallway wall to reveal 

a black vent pipe

long ago abandoned. 

Perhaps that pipe

is my poem about happiness,

the vented happiness

in the unfinished business

of being here,

that somehow one list begets another;

the finish line is only a relative crossroad

that could just as well be

a point of departure,

a poem about happiness

that has been,

that has now,

and is still yet to come

like a poem written

over and over again.