Another birthday shows up like a note on the fridge
penned by someone who knows my handwriting.
Same kitchen, same chair,
but the light feels newly negotiated.
I don’t wish for anything dramatic.
Just the ordinary miracle of noticing
how the cake disappears, how the afternoon shrinks,
how I am still here, somehow, doing the counting.
Later, as cards slump toward the recycling bin,
having done their job and nothing more,
someone announces the year went fast,
a statement so safe it requires no reply.
The earth completes another quiet lap,
spinning me through space without asking.
There’s a brief sense of dizziness,
nothing serious, just the reminder
that motion doesn’t require my participation.
Outside, the day continues without instructions.
The sun clocks out right on time.
I wash a fork, miss a spot,
and begin rehearsing the year’s lines.
For a moment, nothing feels urgent,
because nothing is,
a thought I remember hearing once
and deciding, for now, to believe it.
The Truth About Tigers 