Thirty-eight is such an odd number, age to be,
Not on the edge of forty, but virtually —
Next year. You can’t say life has passed you by;
The math will not support that outcry.
We pass time though, MacNeice said, breezily.
You can’t do everything you did at thirty-three,
Acrobatics you also performed at twenty-five —
How can those eight years hold less than five?
Twelve more years of acceptance can reasonably
Be assumed of a healthy individual, give or take three,
And after that, you should be realistic and revise
Your sense of self with others. Or rationalize.
Sam Robertson grew up in St. Catharines, Ont., and now lives in Forest Hills, Queens with his wife and two young daughters. He teaches literature at Suffolk County Community College on Long Island, and likes to spend summers in the White Mountains of NH. His poems have appeared in magazines and journals, including Literary Imagination, The Hollins Critic, Barrow Street, and The Dalhousie Review.