I’m celebrating my 48th. No birthday paraphernalia
in the house, so I’ll blow out a mourner’s candle
stuck in a muffin. My son usually calls,
but last time I said no need. That boy is too bloody literal.
Should I email myself? Happy returns, you old sod.
Maybe a selfie with the muffin raised high?
No—I will send out notes in bottles.
Hello, son, remember me? A birthday tree
has just fallen in my forest.
A rogue note: Have coffin, need pallbearers.
So why am I hanging around? How absurd, this train
of thought that will, if let, gather all the pace it needs.
The window breeze calms me and a voice
floats up from the playground, a mother singing
happy birthday to her daughter.
I want to pluck one of the birthday wishes
out of the air, but the mother stops singing
and looks up. I realise I’ve been singing along.
In a feat that startles me, I say, “Hi there,
birthday girl, would you and your mum
like to come over for birthday cake?”