Nothing Was Wrong


He felt something
was wrong
because nothing was
wrong—the air was clean
and the humidity low,
the clouds were white
and the sky was
blue, the phone
maintained its quiet
surveillance, unringing,
as cars, infrequently,
passed by the open
window onto the street.
He searched for
disquiet within, and
found only his
expectation—a hollow
shell of the way
his body expected
things to be—
yet here they were,
completely fine,
and he stirred
in this insubstantial
unease, then settled,
accepting the ease,
the unusual feeling of
his whole life
being happy and
at peace.