“Sixtieth Birthday Dinner”
If in the men’s room of our favorite restaurant
while blissfully pissing riserva spumante
I punch the wall because I am so old,
I promise not to punch too carelessly.
Our friend Franco cooks all night and day
to transform blood and bones into osso buco.
He shouldn’t have to clean them off his wall
or worry that a customer gone cuckoo
has mushed his knuckles like a slugger
whose steroid dosage needs a little tweaking.
My life with you has been beyond beyond
and there’s nothing beyond it I’m seeking.
I just don’t want to leave it, and I am
with every silken bite of tiramisu.
I wouldn’t mind being dead
if I could still be with you.
-Michael Ryan
Blogagaard Loves to Ponder
About Me
- David Oppegaard
- St. Paul, Minnesota
- I am the author of And the Hills Opened Up, The Suicide Collectors, and Wormwood, Nevada.
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18 comments:
wow. That's beautiful. Thank you.
I am not a poetry girl. Mostly, I don't like it unless it is funny and rhymes or comes in hiaku form. But I loved this! I think it's because it reminds me how I think I'll feel when I am sixty and still married. Thanks for sharing this Bloppie.
very nice - thanks for posting this poem.
No problem, my peeps. Rand, always good to see in a new face in Blogagaard Land. Welcome.
Thanks - Cap'n Geoff was my original guide to blog-land....his site is now sadly silent and without update for days...what to do, what to do
The Captain fades in and out, like Am rock Dj pirate in the sixites.
...like that Wall of Voodoo song from the '80's, "Mexican Radio"..."wish I was in Tijuana, eating barbequed Iguana..."
It's been over 24 hours, Dave. That must really be a big cup of tea.
there you go, Danny boy. I posted something new.
There is really someone named "Rand Park"? That you know?
No, I don't know him, but yes, I think he exists. Not everyone who comments on my blog knows me personally. Am I talking to Pale Poet right now?
What if you were?
I'd just love that, and hope he's coming to the reaidng tommorow night. And dinner at Pad Thai at 5:30, too, so he could meet my dad!
Rand Park does indeed exist. I've met him. And he lives in our hood Bloppie. Good kid. Good kid.
I mean, Lucas, besides in some 30s spy serial.
Dang time machine - that dame with the sultry voice and the hourglass figure promised she'd bring me back after she was sure the coast was clear...nothing to do now but lean back in my desk chair, flip playing cards into my upturned fedora, and let the cool blue smoke of my unfiltered Camel drift toward the naked 40 watt bulb in my cold water flat here in Lex Ham...
Your are Excellent. And so is your site! Keep up the good work. Bookmarked.
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Hmm I love the idea behind this website, very unique.
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