Thirty-Two

I made coffee at seven in the morning.

Nobody called. I didn't expect one.

No cake. No party. No warning

that I was a year older. Done.

This was my best birthday.

Because nothing happened.

Because I didn't have to smile

for a camera, didn't pretend

for a while that I was someone else.

Just me and the coffee.

Just me and the steam rising up.

Just me getting older in the cup

of this quiet morning, just me.

Just me, alone and not lonely.

Just me, getting older the only

way I want to—quietly, slowly,

without anyone there to see.