TRASH

This is 38.
This is 40.
This is 45.
This is 50.

No.
This is someone I do not know, will never know,
posting another goddamn selfie on social media.
You're celebrating.
You're wearing a hat.
You're holding a cupcake.
You're assuming I care.

You are in fact alive.
Congratulations.
You can afford cake.
Congratulations.
Your book is being published.
Congratulations.
Your baby is due in two months.
Congratulations.
Oh. And yes.
Thanks for reminding me 
that if Marilyn Monroe 
hadn't been killed by the mafia
she would be 118 tomorrow.
You're marrying your twin flame in Reno.
You just won the lottery.
You just inherited a million bucks.
You've been to Paris twice and you're
going back in November
because Billy Joel will be singing
his greatest hits in some big deal
croissant cafe.
My heart is exploding like Fourth of July.
My head is a cascarone.
Confetti scattered from this sidewalk in San Antonio
to a diamond acre on Mars
for you
for you
for all
of you.