#47—Birthday poem for someone whose birthday is that day
Bev, whose birthday it is
Everett, a poet
They are drinking coffee in a cafe.
Okay, Ev. It’s my birthday. I have graced this earth for seventy years and I want a poem.
I’ve tried. I’ve really tried, but I just can’t find the words.
Come on, you’ve had a whole year to work on it.
Well come on yourself. Occasional poems are not my forte.
What do you consider your forte? Those obscure things you get published in the little weird magazines that nobody reads but other obscure poets?
Well, yes. I guess so.
What’s the point in being a poet if you can’t write a little birthday poem for your old friend, huh? What’s the point?
Okay, okay. Here. (Takes a notebook and pen out of his pocket.) Give me a minute. Drink your coffee or something.
(He writes in silence while she drinks her coffee and looks around.)
No! Just shut up and let me work!
Okay, okay. You don’t have to be hostile about it.
Okay. Here it is. Ready?
I’ve been ready since early this morning. Go for it.
Seventy years you’ve graced the Earth.
I’m glad your mother gave you birth.
I hope you’re here for many more,
but who knows what life has in store?
Happy Birthday then, dear Bev,
from your buddy, the poet Ev.
(Stands and applauds, sits again.)
There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? What would I do without you?