Birthdays Poem by Jason C. Brown

are less important now.
I grow sick of their increase, the getting
closer to dying.
I'm not afraid of your approach, but
of having nothing fulfilling to do when you
tap at my window when I'm wrinkled, palsied,
hobbling to the mailbox with canes.
By all means, come.
I'll stop and greet you at the door whether
your gait is swift or slow as mourning.

In the meantime, please, no candles.
No cakes or daft surprises-
Just plenty of sex
with beautiful boys
and movies worth crying for
and music worth living for
and friendships and holding of hands.
May your arrivals be full of sunshine or
warm fat rain. Plop down in my
lap, make yourself comfortable,
gaze into my eyes and say
nothing.