Happy birthday. You sit alone
& play the scratched LP
That’s always been yours,
A dead singer’s uplift
Is all you’ve ever needed.
Memory is a trick—
Like rebellion
In youth
Visions & results
Remain far apart,
But at least
That (you
think) is
Something one can
Count on.
Through a small window
Under the eaves
You see neighborhood
Children
Walking home
From school
Their rain jackets
Yellow as finches.
A compact life this year,
You & Miles Davis
In the attic—
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
& time to turn the record over.
