For my birthday, I wrote myself a sonnet.
“Married to My Years”
Outside the bar, the street is strewn with blooms
Of lamplight. Litter flutters from the hands
Of trash receptacles. Alleys like tombs
Surprise the picture and suggest a man’s
Absorption of my name. But there’s no man
Except the taxi driver, whom I call
After the birthday party so I can
Think of the vows my name still holds and all
The promises still written on my face.
It’s time. Here is my church. All I can do
Is step, breath quaking, toward the life that waits.
The city dresses me in neon blue.
I am the something old and something new.
My time’s the thing that’s borrowed. Yes. I do.