Everything Is Fine

The minister smiles beneath bright television lights,
straightens a borrowed tie,
and waves toward graphs that point obediently upward.

The river has changed color,
the trains no longer arrive on time,
and the children have learned the taste of bottled water.

Everything is fine.

The shareholders applaud.
The quarterly report blooms with impossible percentages.
The factory closes on Friday
and reopens on Monday
without the workers.

A chatbot thanks them for their years of loyalty.
A drone delivers flowers to commemorate efficiency.

Everything is fine.

The influencers explain that happiness
It is simply a matter of morning routines,
cold plunges,
gratitude journals,
and buying the correct beige sofa.

A man skips dinner
to pay for the course
that promises financial freedom.

His receipt arrives instantly.

Freedom, unfortunately,
ships separately.

Everything is fine.

The scientists publish another paper.
The activists organize another march.
The headlines expire before breakfast.

Somewhere,
A glacier forgets its own name.

Somewhere else,
A billionaire announces
that humanity's future
It is comfortably located on another planet.

Applications are limited.

Everything is fine.

By now
the phrase has become a neighborhood custom.

The cashier says it.

The teacher says it.

The nurse says it
while apologizing
for the waiting room.

Parents say it
after checking the bank account.

Children say it
because children repeat
whatever keeps the adults standing.

Everything is fine.

Years later,
archaeologists
Or whatever patient creatures inherit the habit
of brushing dust from old mistakes

discover our advertisements.

They conclude
we worshipped convenience,
subscribed to hope monthly,
and believed
the next upgrade
would finally repair the previous one.

Among the ruins
They uncover a single sentence
carved into billboards,
screens,
contracts,
campaign slogans,
customer surveys,
and smiling faces.

They mistake it for a prayer.

Everything is fine.