This is the twenty-ninth time I sit down to write
something meaningful, and fail, instead resorting
to imagining what life will be when I am not now,
when I am twenty-nine. Will my words be something
meaningful then? Will they fall around me, my house
of cards, collapsed under the weight of self-involvement?
It will be called My Golden Birthday, the collection of
words and failures and all those home-improvement-projects.
It used to seem so far away: twenty-nine, a distant magical
moment when my friends would gather and celebrate
some meaningless thing like my birth. Now I know better.
It ain’t so far off now, and I can see what it will be.
Just another day to rack up the dusty numbers,
cue the break(down), and play a drunken game of pool.