There's a spider tangled
in your thinning chest hair
my chest collides with yours
and we crash onto the rug
with all the grace of an
antelope giving birth.
The rug is embroidered with
North French fishermen dressed the part
playing cards while plump broads gut
fish with all the glee they can muster.
After the sighs and thrusts
there's a birthday cake to decorate
name, age, hobbies, victories
they all need to be incorporated
or at least symbolically represented.
I cut myself and mess it up majestically
blood spills all over your victories and over your grand age
the birthday cake looks like you're a failure.