365 notches

One more year
dribbles into the basket.
At this point
it hardly bears noticing.
Really…
my wife had to tell me
that tomorrow
is my birthday.
I would have pretended
to make a fuss,
if I had known…
but I didn’t.
Forty-six,
after all,
isn’t all that notable.
Honestly…
it just becomes
another notch
on a holding-cell wall
(ok,
that might be
a bit maudlin
but I’ve earned it…
and these three whiskeys
are driving the bus
now).
So, light a candle,
sing a song
and pretend you care
(that’s a note
for both you
and I)
for yet another circle of the sun
has occurred.
Sláinte, Mazel tov and all the rest,
and happy birthday for me,
from me
to you.

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