On Turning 77

The aspen trees in Boulder
whistle in the wind, similar to what
I remember folks used to do when
I was a boy.

They say that age is just a number,
kind of like your home address,
and the past is hidden in your coat
pocket, as if it were a cloud
about to burst open.

I wish I could become a crow,
flying high, wide, and handsome,
black wings against a steel-blue sky,
always on the brink of forever going home.

My hair is gray and sticks out
of the sides of my cap, reminding some
of Mercury. Before I shaved off my moustache
people kept calling me Einstein.

I survive today on melancholy sandwiches,
which I usually eat in a sad café, on rainy days,
with the shades pulled down.

And if anyone troubles to ask,
I always say that life is good,
as good as good can be,
like a silver dollar in the hands
of an incorrigible child.