Thirty five years: old.
From the zero day
a cold adult beverage
drunk perhaps a third
of the way down.
Thirty five ways: told.
Recipes fed the ticker tape
and expectations punched
sidelong paper holes.
Thirty five minutes: cold.
A good nap is fifteen shorter
or fifty five longer
while a quick meal
leaves ages unfulfilled.
Thirty five letters: scold.
Destiny waited
and waited
while eye watched
ears bent
and did not fate.
Thirty five people: crowd.
Memories in five sevens
wrecked on seized shores
manifests deleted
rewritten
to reflect a grouper will.
Thirty five acres: short.
Forty's back from sixty
with a now silent father
to dedicate time to us.
Roman Ryan 