I missed your birthday again this year.
You're one more day living and I'm one more day here.
Watched the day coming and then go.
Is this the first step in mailing you a card
Or the last step in moving from home?
It's funny how old times all began.
We were our lovers and haters and friends.
Who stayed and who left that memory town;
Who stayed in touch with a change of address;
Who sent thoughts and praise when a birthday comes around?
And if I get out that way, let's go out for beers.
We'll hit the Quarterdeck; Frank Black on the Jukebox.
And we'll swap our abbrievated lists for what's new,
Then not speak for years.
I'm thirty-three years old today, which is a far cry from the more interesting eleventy-one. It seems like it will be quite a nice day in Boston today.