1944

Written by: Jack Jordan

Today is my birthday; sixty-eight in words. 
They mean less now 
than when numbers were the cold, hard play of my youth; 
I could make them dance in my head. 

No rule says I can't still dance, 
feel the power of the machine in my skull,
though it runs differently now, 
balancing carefully, 
not falling left or right,
keeping heel to toe.

I'll fall when I'm ready: 
forward, face-down 
on the razor's edge. 

But it's my birthday and I'm on the new side of midnight.
I'm tired, ready to find an edge to sleep on. 
I do talk of edges.