Poetry of Issue #7        Page 59

POEM FOR MY 35th BIRTHDAY

I never thought I’d make
it this far. My habits were
so deadly and my will to
live in my twenties brought
me the closest to death
that I’ve ever been.
I was convinced I’d be
dead by 27 or 33.
But I even survived a
horrid 34th year to make
it to what has got to be
the most fucking boring
non-milestone birthday
of all, and I get to spend
it with a bunch of mental
patients, who will sing
me happy birthday
and drool all over me.
At least I won’t get
lonely, and I’m positive
all of the old people
in my psychiatric
program will laugh
when I tell them
how old I am, and
they will say that
I’m still a baby.
I’m more like a
King Baby,
actually,
with childlike
demands and
hissy fits to
prove it.
That’s what
they tell me
in Alcoholics
Anonymous,
anyway.
And well,
sometimes
it’s good to
be the King.

(Originally Appeared in Cultural Weekly)

  Kevin Ridgeway