Year by Year

My friends are worried.

I’ve never been a person who has worried much about age,
about getting older.
I’ve always thought the alternative is much less appealing.

But they’re worried,
For this year I’m 29.

That’s meaningful, or so they tell me.

“You turn 30 this year.”

I wait for them to complete the sentence so that it shows some import,
but they’re done.

“Oh,” I say.

They are right though.
There is a huge issue bearing over me,
an issue that on this stormy,
snowy,
windy,
wonderful night
is nearly tragic in its scope.

You see,
I’ve outgrown my snow pants.
And I’ve given my gloves to a man who needed them more than me.
And all the shops are closed