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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