The Birthday Letters

Wrapping and tinsel creates inlets,
peninsulas, litterings of letters,
well-wishes, seagull fodder, recyclable redwoods,
books as doorstops,

the such.

I could give you no such thing
being the green-pieceworker, save-the-whalers,
convertor of energenetics
I am.

Besides,
the postal service is a conspiracy
guaranteed to give you cancer
or at least a nosebleed. Collapsible

dates in February fill an Indian Ocean
with salty regret. What I hope today
expired on the sixth, and what hope
tomorrow? Dairy cannot last
and neither can a birthdate. Too late

is penicillin, rot, decay, earthworms, Ash
Wednesday,
movie of the week, disco retro, cliché.
Too early, more of the same.

Still,
happy birthday, you. Put in your pocket
‘til next year.