I sit at the bus stop

A fingernail moon rising east of my left shoulder

On my seventieth birthday

Glad to be heading for work

And not stewing in a hospital bed

Nor snoozing during the first millennium of a dirt nap

Glad to be here

With a serviceable body

And a still-questing mind

And the peacefulness that comes

With all bills paid

And the self-granted license to drink

All the chocolate milk I want

As long as it’s 1%

And it’s still my birthday