It’s my birthday. I watch birds move away
from the river as if some curtain had come
down on a show, an outing with my daughter,
to commemorate, as they call it,

but instead of really watching I look down at
rock patterns and just pretend I’m looking
up into the sky –

rocks move like eagles, you know, only slower;

I walk to the store and study today’s deli offerings,
careful to pick just the right birthday meal,
and though I could buy anything for dinner,

I pick a bagel and a beer in my own house,
my own house, and I’d like to tell you
that this is all I’ve ever wished for when
I’ve dreamt of wishing for something.