Today’s my birthday.
My stepson called,
My eldest called,
And my youngest
(Not so young at fifty-one)
Is on his way
To take us out to dinner
At a nice restaurant.
The weather, unimpressed,
Has been grim gray,
Chilled and rainy
From sunrise on—
Which, of course,
Imposes the usual debit
On these old and weary bones.
Eighty-four is no joke.
Those years a tough,
Silent and unresponsive audience,
While I try,
I really do,
To rejoice
And have some fun,
Exhibit a bit of gratitude
Despite the wind,
And rain,
And the diseased world
All of us
Inhabit.
(2/6/14)