better

"how are you doing," he asks me.
"better," i say, which is sort of a lie
because i am never getting
that.

what i should have done
was laugh hysterically
because

it's all a joke, right,
it has to be a joke,
just a joke, right,
ha.

"how are you doing," he asks me.

i am not doing anything.
i am not, i'm not

better can be measured in increments
but something is always so far off about it,
like the time:

"how are you doing," she asked me.

"get better soon," she said.

and who am i to tell her
that this is not just a matter
of restoring things to right -

i have never been
that.

i'm just a fool.
i'm a fool for trying
when only the good die young,
and i have never been enough of
that.

"how are you doing,"

i have never been
better.