Fortieth Birthday Poem

The secret is — there is no secret.

Sometimes a croissant is just a croissant.

The manicure is no cure —

The pedicure is no cure —

But a flashlight in your glovebox might come in handy.

Likewise, a Pop-Tart. Likewise, a toothpick.

And be sure to keep a panoply of napkins in there:

assorted sizes & textures, logos to remind you of everywhere you’ve been

& how soft your face is, still, to the touch. Jewel was sensitive

in the ‘90s, remember? It’s the new millennium, & you are too.

I turned thirty standing in line to buy cigarettes.

I don’t smoke, except the times I do.

As I swiped my card, the little clock on the checkout box

switched to midnight, & poof! — just like that — my twenties were gone.

I glanced around, waiting for someone to notice. They didn’t.

Bye, Twenties. I promised I’d write you, & I did.

I used to say I’m spiritual, not religious.

Now I say I’m a secular humanist.

I used to say I bet I’ll have more answers

after graduate school. Well, guess what?

It’s after graduate school, & every day

I’m still glitter-bombed with questions.