What does it mean to be happy?
To have perfectly sculpted and Photoshopped teeth,
and a smile serene and gracious enough
to seem only slightly condescending?
Or does it mean to be content
with your own chipped and broken smile?
For the driven are never happy,
and the happy are never driven,
and those who are both are impossible.
I am impossible.
I fall in the middle,
I lie prostrate
along the yellow line dividing the highway.
And the stereos play from the cars that drive by
and I hope I can save myself
from Photoshop and LASIK
long enough for
my chipped and broken smile
to stop mattering.
If I can just save myself,
maybe
happiness will fill my smile out,
no braces necessary.