77 Sunset Trip

I wrote this yesterday, at the turning of the leaf, so to speak.

The sound of it like a dance
Cavorting brightly on a sunlit beach
Or a fragrant meadow
Lost in the mist of long ago memory.

Seventy-seven. My number now.
Sibilant, slithering on the tongue
Sliding across the brain
A staggering number, stupendous, shocking.

Peering over the precipice of seventy-five
Looking back at so much
Looking ahead at so little
Each day an uncertainty of if and when.

Inside I scream: I'm here! Look at me!
But I'm the only one listening
My aches and pains and challenges
Some kind of inside joke.

And for all that, I will grip
This frivolous seventy-seven
Like a prize, unearned,
A most unserious number
Festooned with sparkling promise.