imagining myself
getting to plink out the rough edges
of what sarah said on a real piano (moved twice i hear)
even if un-tuned that's how
much i'd like to see you
while you lazily sip whatever
drink of choice your birthday wish grants and
critique the too on-the-nose portions of writing (whomever's)
and we both pretend we've got a tightly knit extended family.

the miniature icicles melting aimless on your
porch that have managed
to escape the angling sun
gone fishing for a chance to erase to frost
the new yorker read back and front
consumed in short time
       (I pay attention an extra bribe so to notice the poems
        herein selected whether "could have done that!", didn't,
                                                and haven't the proofs to show)

while another milestone of nothingness
slips its birthing waders on
escapes into that big pool bearing
the sun (its son) each dawn.
rebirth and death being
too good of metaphors to
tell us what we can't see at night
(light) and day
(the moon hidden away)
tell Rudy that you know how she feels and
plead like that until buttoned-up
by clink or by kiss
or by spinning plate
secretly wishing
for it

so there is a poem for you on this day
that means as little or as much
as you'll let it persuade

hey hey
my my