HE'D BE SEVENTY ONE

HE'D BE SEVENTY-ONE

The month of January is both bitter-sweet
In a cold graveyard, his life all undone
I have a birthday, but my friend stays asleep
If he hadn't have died, he'd be 71.

He loved to laugh, he loved to drive
He had looks and talent and brains
Might even have been an Astronaut
Or an inventor of electric trains.

Before he had a chance to fall in love
Or marry and have some kids
Before he had traveled to see the world
His time was up & he was dead.

He'd now be a proud grandfather
A retired fisherman or in a band
Sailing to all the places he dreamed of
Or keeping his feet firmly on land.

I blow out the candles on my cake
And think of all he might become
As I make a private, silent wish
I think to myself: "He'd be 71."