The Truth About Tigers

I hadn’t planned for a party,
not for this rather unremarkable milestone
that falls somewhere vaguely past the midpoint
of an average human lifespan.

But then, a birthday message came,
linking to January 30th’s famed celebrants,
and before I knew it, they were all here,
gathered around a grand table in my mind.

Dick Cheney and Saul Alinsky,
embroiled in a fiery debate over politics,
their voices rising and falling in a battle of wits,
while Franklin Roosevelt, ever the statesman,
sits in his chair, striving to bring order
to the fervent ideological clash.

Across the table from the politicians,
thespians spar with equal fervor,
Gene Hackman and Christian Bale
engrossed in a debate about the finer points
of American Hustles and French Connections,

their voices competing to be heard above
the spontaneous jamming of Phil Collins,
oh lo-ord, tapping jazz beats
with chopsticks on solo cups,
accompanied by Roy Eldridge
on plastic party kazoo.

Amidst this imagined chaos,
I ponder our silly penchant for shared birthdays,
the synchronicity we assign to these collective sunrises,
where, inherently, none exists.

But, still, I have to say it was pretty cool
when Richard Brautigan finally showed up,
handing out homemade birthday cards
adorned with his weirdly wonderful words
from Trout Fishing in America,
a book I love, but probably still
don’t completely understand:

“All of us have a place in history.
Mine is clouds.”