Birthday Buddies

Unless two humans were born within twenty-four hours

Of each other, people do not have the same birthday

The insanity to which human beings seek to create relatable infrastructures

Of context to appear as if connected and yet,

Avoid all true connection of that which we are, saddens me 

We celebrated the seventy-three year old secretary’s birthday in our office yesterday

There was an ice cream cake purchased by one of the girls

As this was the elder female and sympathy, endearment and assumptions of recognition

Are deemed more appropriate than for a more virile or busy crewmember

Driving offspring to basketball or to medical appointments 

My sixty-three Boomer-boss crossed in front of the septuagenarian’s desk today

“Madeline turned four today so y’all are close.”

“Aww, I didn’t know that,” replied the gray teased-perm man-haired great-grandmother  

It what way are these two connected, granted I could give the younger of the two

An allowance to reason that a date of birth is not midnight to midnight,

But the time one exits vagina or abdomen via section to which twenty-four hours pass

At which point one’s actual calendar remembrance of one’s birth is invariably the beginning  

And may be the actual minority of time for one’s initiation to external breathing

And the day following may be the majority and at which point this seventy-something and four

Do in fact structurally share the same conceptual tattoo of hours, yet I find protest  

The horoscopes and minutia of February 28^th or 27^th or 29^th are distraction to follow away

From the cosmic interconnection and existential search,

What is a birthday but a revolution of our sun? So these bell rings that we are as equidistant In the point of our revolution as the point of exit from our mother is of most irrelevance.  

Possibly conception, possibly Oh! such dangerous arguments of encoded personality-hood

Oh! what have we done, but become anarchists with the cards and the presents and the cakes

The balloons are full of helium and the best way to go in a modern American-ending

Is a tank from a party store, a plastic bag, tubing and pumped in helium  

Until it all ends in breathing, not choking, no gagging, just natural pass out

All these gunshot fools or bridge jumpers, oh so passé, It’s someone’s birthday today!

Tomorrow and the next, and in fact was yesterday and on and on

So obsessed with mythical bouts of kindred linking 

The time in our corneas, in our limbic nodes is calling,

We always were; you see, We always were.