A birthday will be happening soon,

just one more day of my life, really.

(Is it useful as an indexing device,

like a minor holiday?)


Also on my calendar are check-ups

with all those doctors, preceded

by anxiety (about the sentence

they may impose).


I’m tired of all of this, my fear

as they open folders to read test results.

I suppose anxiety beats resignation.

(And fear of being parenthetical


to something else.)

I was shocked, at age 30,

the first time an editor printed

after my name: (1943 –         ).


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