Here's to ravening pneumonia bacilli
overswarming my lungs in 1953,
spiking my infant brain in first fever,
 
here's to the 1960 Chevy Nova,
blue rustbox swerving in squeals
away from my careening bike,
 
and the Norway maple I Tarzanned into
in '66, my hands rope-scalded and throbbing,
my head ablaze with stars,
 
here's to the power line I rammed in '70
with our sailboat mast, that sparkler shower
an oddly lovely false dawn,
 
here's to the drinks I didn't guzzle,
ice that wouldn't crack, drag races
I studied from the sidelines,
 
here's to pills I didn't gulp,
fights I ducked, handholds that held--
all blessing my yet unbroken head.
 
Yet here's a small toast, too, a thimbleful
to the boy who blazed, soared, and skidded,
who rose like an ornery blimp from the ground
 
of his own being.  Here's to the air
that left his lungs warmer, electricity
sprung from his brain and still smoldering.
                         

I’m too old to die young
sings Chris Smither—now
there’s a guy who’s good
at counting his blessings!
Let’s see. Among my own 
blessings is that no one feels 
strongly enough about it to 
hate me. I’m unbothered 
by too much acclaim.
So lucky I didn’t peak
too soon, then flare out.
How fortunate I’ll never 
be urged to run for 
political office or have to
spend whole days giving
interviews. I haven’t had
to say Sorry, I’m married
to any beautiful woman
in years. Or really ever,
if I’m being honest, and
not counting that one 
time when she was so
sloppy drunk I was not
even flattered. My own 
mother never found
me beautiful. She loved
to tell the story of being
presented in her hospital
bed with her new baby boy
and bursting into tears. 
I’m lucky I had that kind
of mother, not the sort 
who found me spectacular.
Too cautious, too worried,
too plain to be spectacular,
I had to win her over, 
and I’m not sure I ever
completely did. The last
thing she said to me, 
emerging momentarily
from her dementia and
narcotic fog, was, “You
look ancient!” I was too 
old by then not to second 
her ancient laughter.