Happy birthday, brother. It’s 9AM.
You’d be on your second Guinness by now.
“Breakfast of champions!” Not pacing them—
You never paced unless you had a cow—
Downing them. Each one with its own glowing
Jamie shot—a glass for every last year
And one for good luck—which was always throwing
Brickbats at you. Who needs luck? You had beer,
And an undying hope behind each toast—
And plans. Always a plan. I bet you even
Planned for this—me alive and you a ghost,
Knowing that nothin’ stays alive like grievin’—
And all that pain of might-have-been and never
Is just another way to live forever.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells