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.