It is just after midnight.
I close my book
(Skeletons in the Closet,
Jean-Patrick Manchette,
p. 64) and put it on my
night table. In the washroom,
I spit in the sink,
then blast the cold water,
send the remnants of 64
down the drain. I have
never mentioned spit
in a poem before. So
this is it. This is
what 65 is all about.
A silverfish swims by
on the floor, grazes
my toe. It is neither
silver, nor a fish.
18 July 2024
Yes, spit out the last vestiges of 64 upon turning 65, but know that this will be a great year.
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