I don’t remember many birthdays.
I guess I’ve grown too old.
There was a party from my childhood.
I don’t recall how old I was turning.
All that I recollect is an image of
Wrapping paper blowing in the March wind
(March’s wild wind is the only constant
Between all my birthday memories),
And presents sprawled out on the backyard deck.
I think the gifts I got that year were a blue truck,
A plastic saxophone, and a toy electric guitar.
At another party, maybe five years ago,
My sister baked me a Steelers cake.
It must had been tough for her to do,
She being a Ravens fan and all.
Then there was my birthday party
Last year at a club. I got drunk,
Vomited tequila, and made an ass
Out of myself. I wish I could take it back.
This year will be different;
I made my promise to the universe.
This year, I’ll begin my birthday with poetry.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen