I hadn’t planned a party,
not for this unremarkable milestone
that falls somewhere past the midpoint
of an average human lifespan.
Then a birthday message arrived,
linking January 30th’s famed celebrants,
and before I knew it they were all here,
gathered around a long table in my mind.
Dick Cheney and Saul Alinsky
locked in argument,
Franklin Roosevelt trying,
as always, to keep the peace.
Across from them, the actors hold court,
Gene Hackman and Christian Bale
debating the finer points
of American hustles and French connections,
their voices competing with Phil Collins—
oh lord—tapping jazz rhythms
with chopsticks on red Solo cups,
Roy Eldridge chiming in
on a plastic party kazoo.
Amid the imagined chaos,
I think about these collective sunrises,
the meaning we give
to coincidence
where none exists.
Still, it was pretty great
when Richard Brautigan finally showed up,
handing out homemade cards
printed with his strange, gentle lines
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.
The Truth About Tigers 