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March 27, 2023

Turning 41

By Eric Robert Nolan

Turning 41

Forty-one found me
in midday reminiscence --
not at the bars in Fredericksburg
where 21 arrived like a proud, aggressive fleet,
setting sail against
easily conquered oceans.
Accurate charts assured my hands;
my future lay
in neatly mapped seas,
measured leagues in quadrants,
latitudes, longitudes.
Distant shores seemed
vulnerable to my every effort.
The water that night
was a kind of golden bronze --
the cheap, sweet beer
of the college junior.

Forty-one arrives
where compasses didn't predict.
Octants are confounded and
sextants equivocate.
All the almanacs agree
only that we are at sea.

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013

Originally appeared in Dead Snakes.

Article © Eric Robert Nolan. All rights reserved.
Published on 2021-01-04
Image(s) are public domain.
2 Reader Comments
08:52:34 PM
Poignant poem ... Things certainly don't turn out as planned ... even with the best calculations. Everything changes.
Eric Robert Nolan
08:42:09 PM
Thanks so much, Harris. :-)
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