72

By John I. Blair

I’m so old now
The number’s passed above
The point of being meaningless.

The years are indistinct;
Memory’s grown dim
Or gone entirely dark.

Just sitting I could be
Anything from forty to a hundred;
Moving on my feet
I fancy that I’m fifty, sixty most.

But a week ago I turned six twelves,
Half a dozen dozens,
And blew out a single candle,
Very fat (like me)
While my children and grandchildren sang.

And though I often can’t remember
Simple things
Like people’s names
Or what I had for lunch on Tuesday,

I’m blessed by knowing,
Firmly,
Who I am
And whom I love.

©2013 John I. Blair