30
Thirty -
it’s not a great number.
There’s forty; everybody loves forty -
life begins and man finds love in forty.
Thirty?
Ahh, who knows a famous thirty?
No sporty sports a thirty on his jersey;
or even thinks it when the whistle blows.
Thirty!
I bet there’s something special to it, yeah.
It is payday thirty… Yes, but after the
check and cash outs, it’s forgotten.
Lame thirty. Lame thirty.
So why be afraid of thirty?!
Dunno.
Maybe it is the number before it: 29.
You can look at February,
need I explain it here? No.
When you experience divergence,
like Mr. Frost, you’ll choose.
Left or right. Here or there.
This or that. Decisions, decisions.
If you’re twenty nine, it’s easy.
You don’t think ahead like you care.
But if you’re Robert,
then you have to think first;
which makes it even worse…
…so you write about it -
and end up rethinking it
thirty times even or more.
Copyright © Rory Ian Bualan | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment