Karma and Dough Balls
No-one tell me poetry is useless
I am OLD. My birthday this year ends in zero. I was born in Washington D.C. because Dad was working on America’s fledgling space programme. Yes, it was rocket science. I attended John F. Kennedy’s funeral as a seven-month foetus, inside my weeping mother.
You never know how long you’ve got to dance, or how many more times you’ll see old friends, so at the start of the year, I made a foolish decision. Let’s have the party of all parties, even though half the department where I’ve taught creative writing for the last ten years is being made redundant this summer. It won’t be me, will it. It will never be me. Hell, if it is me, I’m gonna need a big party.
Not just a night either. You know how it is when you have one night. You’re inviting a bunch of people, most of whom live all over the place, you’ve not seen them for ages, you rush around saying hi, you dance, you drink, and it’s over. Just a bunch of clearing up to d…
