One decade ends. I’m turning thirty-nine.
The years of bridal parties, toasts and such,
Have shifted. Storks are circling overhead.
My friends have lives that center on the kid
Or kids. It might be two, as most of them
Are replicating, building families
Of nuclear dimensions. From the side,
I watch. The wedding guest appears transformed:
A bachelor uncle, godfather, now guest
For turkey dinners, birthday parties. Still
A bon vivant, a raconteur, I wait
For signs from some line coach, perhaps a wave
That calls me off the bench. We’ve reached the half,
And this gay man, now lost in metaphor
That rests in sport, looks up. A clear blue sky,
But in the distance, storks, once laden birds,
Are lifting off, their wingspans open wide.
They soar.
2/23/07
