The good thing
about aging is
receiving fewer calls
that command decoration
of an otherwise dull
daily routine.
Details of
the made-up cake I ate,
an extravagant meal.
Dreaded jokes
about added wisdom
fooling no one;
we're all just feigning, fading.
Over and over again.
So ordinary.
Let's be honest.
There's only been one change
since that last conversation
exactly a year ago -
a heavier number.
One more ring in this stump
that awaits its demise,
its call-to-fame.
Cut down one day
put to use
shredded to paper;
transformed into
another dollar-pizza box
like the one I just stuffed
into an overflowing Manhattan trash can.