Hypochondriac

He doesn’t know what ails him;
it will not rest until it has a name.

Or he forgets.

He thinks his knees are aching,
or his calves might be swollen.

He thinks he’s got a fever,
or a cough.

He’s tired of thinking.

It crosses his mind
that it might be his mind.

“But it doesn’t make it
any less real,” he says.

He thinks it might be the new job,
or the boredom;

a pill—any pill—would do.

He thinks he’s lucky,
and he’s sorry,

and he counts his blessings in one breath.
“I have you, and her, and her—

don’t make me cry!”

But it still doesn’t have a name.
Only sometimes it doesn’t need one.