A Nearly 60th Birthday Poem
Ah Friday, September! I'm happy
in a melancholy way.
I'd rather gleam
like those little suns reflecting
on each pomegranate by the fence,
but that's over with, I guess.
My cat Orlando doesn't mind.
He likes it that I have more time to
pet and talk to him now
as I walk aimlessly in the yard
trying to find where the cheerful
summer went.
Wordsworth had "intimations" of this
at thirty, and it's taken me
twice his age.
A hawk glides above
my neighbor's evergreen
in the everblue,
ever ready to swoop down on some
unsuspecting pet
whose master's gone this one last workday
before the weekend
can begin.
And then?
So what?—
questions
that I never
would have asked.
Joseph Somoza
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