SEVENTY
Like Paters and Glorias on a Rosary beads
the O birthdays.
I swanned up to the third,
bruised an ankle on the forth,
the main heartaches undergone by the fifth.
The beads between number the human lot
of joy and misery, just about evening out.
Forgotten much, forgiven a lot.
New mysteries await as I pass the seven-O.
Arrived at the bible allocation,
I adopt my Father’s attitude:
“at three score and ten, you’re on overtime”
Glory be, to the maybe ten or more
for those who are strong.