We honored the day with bottles of wine,
Gifts, and never enough conversation.
It was his twenty-seventh, maybe her
Forty-fifth, or perhaps it was someone’s
Sixty-second. That would be the hardest,
Reminding us that life is too often
Measured in sixty-second increments.
I wonder why we measure it at all:
What does it matter what year it occurred
Or which day of the week the thing happened
Or how many minutes slipped our fingers?
Time is relentless only when you slip
Out of the moment and into your fear,
Only when you make life a statistic.