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.