This is the anniversary of the day
I put my Mom in the hospital.
(It’s OK, it’s just my birthday.)
April 16, 1960 was a Saturday.
It was the day before Easter.
After I was born that day,
It became Holy Saturday.
(That’s an old family joke. Very old.)
If I had been born in 1930,
I would have five years left to go.
However, life expectancy keeps going up,
So, I probably have much longer,
Even though I am surrounded by Italians.
(I’m looking at you, Debbie and Virginia.)
53 is a pretty boring age since it’s not divisible by anything.
It’s not a five-year or ten-year anniversary.
It’s a prime number, so it’s just the 53rd anniversary.
What a snooze.
Don’t Google stuff on your birthday.
John Denver died when he was 53.
So, did Jerry Garcia.
So, a beloved, gifted musician and John Denver.
(Apologies to John Denver fans. Take me home, country roads.)
I guess it’s time for a mid-life crisis.
I would quit my job and open a bar,
But I watch Restaurant Impossible,
So I know that’s a bad idea.
I could run off to sea and change my life,
But crew don’t get balcony rooms,
So, that’s not going to work.
I suppose the biggest challenge I have today
Is figuring out how to get out of this stupid poem.
It’s rambling even worse than some of the stuff
I wrote when I was 52.
That seems like a long time ago.