I found a book of poetry on the mailroom floor. I opened it randomly and read the first poem as I rode up the elevator. It reached me, so here it is...
The happy ones are almost always also vulgar;
happiness has a way of thinking
that's rushed and has no time to look
but keeps on moving, compact and manic,
with contempt in passing for the dying:
Get on with your life, come on, buck up!
Those stilled by pain don't mix:
with the cheerful, self-assured runners
but with those who walk at the same slow pace.
If one wheel locks and the other's turning
the turning one doesn't stop turning
but goes as far as it can, dragging the other
in a poor, skewed race until the cart
either comes to a halt of falls apart
-Patrizia Cavalli
