Another year slid by
without a host of hullabaloo
or even a confetti popper
signifying its passing.

And the lines in the stores
and on the freeways at six
stand still as the lines in my
skin deepen and fold.

Turning 50 made me feel entitled
to rant or cry or speak my mind,
but this year, I do not want to
sign that book or tell off the world.

Instead, I want to go back
to the bookstore,
talk about poetry and lore,
find myself with Whitman

buying groceries with Ginsberg,
walking quietly in the woods,
finding beauty in the simple
things that surround me.

Perhaps even you might
consider joining me,
talking for hours about
meaning and madness.


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