How Are You?

You ask me how I am

And then glance past my shoulder,

Already anxious

To continue your errands.

“Fine.” I reply

“Great, great,” you answer,

Already dancing on your toes

Poised to be on your way.

I wonder,

As I often do,

What you would say

If I told you the truth.

“I feel terrible; hopeless

Nothing holds any meaning .

I spend huge chunks of my day

Wishing I were dead.”

“Great, great,”

You would likely reply with disinterest,

So ingrained is your anticipation

Of a polite, meaningless answer.

I watch you scurry away

And I wonder

How you could have missed

The black cloud hanging over my head.

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