997. The Pure Suit of Happiness, by May Swenson

The pure suit of happiness,
not yet invented. How I long
to climb into its legs,

fit into its sleeves, and zip
it up, pull the hood
over my head. It’s got

a face mask, too, and gloves
and boots attached. It’s
made for me. It’s blue. It’s

not too heavy, not too
light. It’s my right.
It has its own weather,

which is youth’s breeze,
equilibrated by the ideal
thermostat of maturity,

and built in, to begin with,
fluoroscopic goggles of
age. I’d see through

everything, yet be happy.
I’d be suited for life. I’d
always look good to myself.

Source: New and Selected Things Taking Place


  1. I have loved this poem since I was a freshman in college. I still want this suit!