March 28: Happiest Person, Psalm 20, Gallup poll

My inspiration for today's poem once more came from my radio this morning.  It was a story on a Gallup survey about the happiest person in America.  Gallup came up with a statistical profile of this individual.  It was quite specific.  I won't give the details away.  That would ruin my poem.  However, it was so off-the-wall that I thought nobody could possibly fit the profile.  But, of course, the news report included an interview with a person who fit the profile exactly.

Perfection is such an elusive thing.  If you are the happiest person in America, that means nobody else in the country should be more content with his/her life.  I'd bet the Bill Gates is pretty happy with his existence.  (Bill Gates is NOT the happiest person in America, by the way.)  So it boils down to attitude, culture, occupation, age, relationships, and religion. 

Today hasn't been perfect for me.  I spent the morning correcting papers, taught a class, and then spent an hour or so in conference with a student, going over an essay line-by-line.  It was a long afternoon.  My students don't realize that my office hours are not meant to be taken up with helping them.  My office hours are for me to work on my poem of the day.  It didn't work out that way today.  Thank God I already had an idea for my poem, or I would have been totally screwed.  However, I did get my poem written, fairly quickly.  Another gift from God.  I don't have a lot of time to say much else.  Hopefully, I will be able to get this posted before I have to go home. 

Saint Marty hopes you all have a statistically wonderful night, whatever that entails.

Psalm 20:  The Happiest Person In America

According to a Gallup poll,

The happiest person in America

Is tall, not Jimmy Stewart tall,

But not Tom Cruise short. He

(Of course a man, women need

Not apply) is Asian-American,

To insure aptitude for math,

Science, I suppose.  He must

Be an observant Jew, Christians

Tending to be too Republican,

Therefore humorless, Muslims

Raising eyebrow threat levels

On airplanes too much to allow

For vacations in Europe, Fiji,

Greece.  No, a Jew, enlightened

Enough to appreciate the writing

Of E. L. Doctorow, but strict

Enough to take Yom Kippur off work.

He should be 65 years of age

At least, almost ready to collect

Social Security for a few years

Before the money runs out.

Married with children.

His wife should be up

For kosher late night dinners,

Skinny-dips, Tony Bennett songs.

His children, graduates of Brown,

UCLA, make trips home for

Radish and salt at Passover.

He lives in Hawaii, snorkels

Coral reefs in Huaname Bay,

Stops at roadside fruit stands

To buy fresh-cut pineapple.

He has his own business, something

Non-stressful like surf blogger,

Hot air balloon captain, pastry chef,

Earns more than $120,000 a year,

Not enough to attract the attention

Of relatives, but enough to pay

For botox, liposuction, Kindles.

This man is happiest.  Satisfied.

Wakes at dawn to sit lotus,

Watch the Pacific surf, kiss

His wife of forty years before

She goes for her morning jog.

Statistic perfection, as unattainable

As Liz Taylor’s violet eyes,

As peace between Israel, Palestine,

As John Lennon’s no Heaven, no Hell,

One Gallup world, living as one.



You are a loser.  This guy's a winner.