Last time I was sixty I sat in the park,
the sun warmed my face
and tried to read without my glasses.
Went to a small bar around the corner
wanted to tell someone
that it was my birthday,
but since it was in the beginning of the week
only the barmaid was there,
she had just had a tit lift
and they looked twenty-five years younger than her.
Plied her with drinks,
she closed the bar
and in her flat we groped each other
like drowning people fighting over the same life belt
in a sea of past regrets.
This year’s sixtieth birthday
my girlfriend is cooking me a dinner
grilled, skinless chicken breast
and one glass of red wine,
slaps my hand
she does when I try to refill my glass.
It isn’t getting any easier.