I Want Half

Forty years sober, eighteen years married

this wise kind man who claims there are

no bad days, who lives with persistent pain

insists there are no bad days.

His back’s been manipulated and fused

with metal rods and newly grown bone

to no good end and yet he will tell any

and all that there are no bad days.

Sleeps poorly, uses crutches, a scooter

to move about and yet:  no bad days.

I want half his good will

half his acceptance

half his equanimity

half his serenity

half his pluck.