Today I’m 64,
complete with 64 shades of cancer,
a strike, summed together a perfect ten,
long as the feet of a bowling alley,
gentle and delightful as the
64 centimeters of a lady’s footstep,
filled with enough sadness
for 64 six word stories about grief,
grateful enough for 64 poems of joy and thanks.
I’m just barely a Beatles’ song.
You know the one.
Sing it, and maybe these
old tired deaf ears might hear it
and allow you to joyfully sing along.
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