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.