With sixty-six months
up your sleeves
and nose-hairs up your nose,
your appetite for wine and cheese
the post post teenager shows.
You're dedicated to yourself
without apology
and explanations wear your patience
as all things unnecessary
to the 30-year sense.
What lies before you
holds no wait,
the future makes no sound.
The 10950 days
are in a buried mound.
Your goldfish view of present thoughts
takes eagerness in hand -
tomorrow will come anyway
for soloist or band.
Snow, hail or sun: Make hay.
(Explanation: I wrote this in 2006 for my cousin, Liam, in honour of his 30th birthday.
Inspired by: Turning 30 a few months before Liam and coming to the realisation that you care far less what other people think once you get out of your twenties...Of course that might just have been me!)
