FORTY TWO

I remember turning thirty three
Over in my head
I would be like Jesus
In some small way
I said quietly
And reinvent myself
Although I let slip that particular ball
It didn't escape through stigmata
More a banal attrition of days

Last year at forty one
I had just won a lottery
Buying drinks for all
And sundries too
Whatever you want's fine with me
Yet it cascaded away
I couldn't hold on
With my holey hands

Martin Hannett died at forty two
Probably halfway satisfied
So did Franz Kafka
Unpublished manuscripts stuffed down his dusty drawers
Full of answers that fella
Someone to aspire to