My birthday's here; today's the day.
I'll throw a party! Can't you stay?
Ah, I see, you've plans and so
reluctantly you've got to go–
you've got a dog who's not been fed;
you've got a child who's sick in bed;
you're working late; you have to stop
to wash the car, to grocery shop.
There's volunteering at the church
and missing socks for which to search,
and so I start to really see
the places that you'd rather be,
than sharing simple cups of tea
with someone with a birthday: me.

 My mother's words ring through my head:
"I'll be just fine–go on ahead.
I'll just sit here at home alone…
perhaps a friend will text or phone?
Perhaps I'll have that tea myself…
or pull the gin down from the shelf.
Of course–you have a life to lead.
A party? Really? There's no need!
What was I thinking? Selfish me–
I'm happy as a clam can be!"

A solo party I shall throw,
and I'm the only one who'll go
and will have such a happy time:
I'll write a poem, create a rhyme
that celebrates the me I am,
and toast some bread and spread some jam.
"Cheers!" I'll say and take a slug
of gin and give myself a hug,
and when it's all gone to my head,
I'll drag my lonely self to bed. 

Text and image © 2012 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.