Fine
It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.
She muttered this phrase often when things weren't fine at all,
raking her fingers through her fine hair only to find strands stuck between her fingers,
afraid she might go bald from all the head-scratching over the absurdity that had become her reality.
Sheer stupidity was not listed in the fine print of the job description,
yet it was lurking everywhere, waiting to pounce and rattle her fine-tuned plans.
It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.
It had become a common refrain, a survival mechanism,
a resignation to the lack of power that threatened to shatter her,
a way to walk the fine line between beliefs and responsibilities, common sense and nonsense,
an attempt to keep her balance when the ridiculousness was dizzying,
treading carefully every time she opened her mouth, afraid her true feelings would escape.
It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.
It had become the standing joke among co-workers,
so often spoken they ordered t-shirts--because laughing is better than crying,
a way to show collective strength in the face of adversity, or at least have a little fun
in a place where fun seemed to go to die,
refusing to lose their humor--or their minds--in the fine mess they did not create.
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