Happiness, to hear it described, is a magic bird call
dropped by an elf in a street you have yet to wander down.
For some it's the culmination of some elusive arrangement
of the furniture, while for others it flows from house pets
or shoes, another thousand a month, a more efficient machine
or a hitherto unmet “Right Person.”
As one skeptical of all of this, but who has at times
found himself aware of his situation and yet not displeased,
here is my advice:
If, on some otherwise ordinary day, that gate swings open,
shut your mouth and keep moving.
Whistle past a graveyard, if you have one handy.
This will pass, but you have not, at least not yet.
Go find a plot of ground and introduce yourself
to the insects and blades of grass. Spit, and make mud
with your fingers, which have many other uses.
Mud has been said to cure blindness
but in most cases a diagnosis is all it takes.