They ask me at the door, the counter, the desk, the passing hall—
fine is the correct dimension of what lives between us, that’s all,
fine is not a lie exactly, fine is the appropriate answer
for the format: the thirty-second social scan, the dancer’s
quick turn at the barre before the music asks for more—
fine keeps the conversation fitted to the floor
it’s being held on, which is tile and fluorescence and the moving
line of people who are also fine and not proving
anything to anyone, just passing and maintaining speed.
Fine, I’m fine—it’s a paper wall that passes for a window.
Fine, I’m fine—the agreed-upon, the managed, the shallow
of a social exchange that no one wants to plow too deep—
fine, I’m fine, the password to the surface, the short leap
over the actual thing and into the civil transaction.
Fine, I’m fine, the only word that fits this contraction
of space and context—fine maintains the speed required.
Fine, I’m fine. The honest answer has retired.
Sometimes the real thing surfaces—I feel the actual word
rising through the mechanism, the genuine, the unblurred
version reaching the threshold before I swallow it back down—
the real thing was almost said, almost wore the mantle
of being the sentence I delivered to the asking face.
Then the line moves forward and fine takes back its place.
I’m fine the way a hairline fracture in a beam is fine—
structurally within acceptable, still falling along the line
of tolerances, no collapse projected at this time, the scan
says probably nothing, probably just the wear and plan
of a life lived close to the edge of something without a name.
I’m fine. I made it to the end. I’m still in the frame.
Fine, I’m fine—the standard-issue answer to the standard ask.
Fine keeps the moment moving at the pace that wears the mask
comfortably—fine says I’m functional, I’m in the game—
wait, not game—fine says I’m present, I’m on frame.
Fine, I’m fine—nobody asked for more than that.
Fine, I’m fine. I’ll leave it where it’s at.