Why do people always feel compelled to say
how are you
when they pass me in the halls?

Nothing feels more inauthentic than hurrying by each other
Hurtling the social script at retreating backs

Sometimes I don't respond, leave the question hanging in the air
Sometimes I don't say it back, an awkward lopsided exchange

We already know what I'm going to say
And, I'm pretty sure, we all already know
It isn't true

I'm tired of lying
And I'm tired of polite nonsense exchanges
Just smile at me and move on

I'm fine, how are you? I say