birthday

It was my birthday yesterday,
so I suppose I should write a poem.

I have no grand or mystic theme,
no conversations with
the Godhead, life, or memory,
to make you stare and think
‘good lord! This poetry is alchemy...
The base metals of life have been
transmuted into gold.’

So instead I’ll talk about
a half-Mexican, American
Naval officer I once knew.
He sent me, unsolicited,
pictures of his butt,
and him in uniform.
(I wasn’t confident enough
to ask that he wear his uniform
while showing me his butt.
A life can be filled with regrets.)

It was the cutest butt I’ve seen,
even today, and he was cute as well.
Confused and sweet. Didn’t know why
he couldn’t make it with girls
nor why as the years rolled by
he was only excited by guys,
furtive encounters in the dark
and on chat sites.

I wish I could have given him
some bit of advice to comfort
his identity and make him whole
within himself. But I couldn’t.
Sometimes there’s not much you can say,
just like there’s not always
a poem for a milestone birthday.