Have you ever noticed how close 37 is to 40?

I tried to post yesterday, but my server was down. My IT husband (as in computer guru, he of the computer mojo) was unavailable. So my post went unrecorded. It was thus:

The boy's bent head, sharp as lead on dropped pencil, say a prayer for sirens. Or something like that. it was much better last night. My drawing student, in the middle of working on a sketch of Spiderman, heard sirens in the distance, dropped his pencil, clasped his hands, said a mumbled prayer and did a fast sign of the cross. I was baffled. At first I thought he was thinking, sitting there with his hands clasped. Nope, praying. Wow!

Here's today's poem.

To-Do: or, Today Is My Birthday

Let's not make a big to-do
it's just a birthday
anniversary of the big push.
My mother never made a big
production of her one production,
her few hours of fame.
It was life she made a production of,
the big to-do.
Must paint and paper the room girl's room yearly,
say yes to everything
no to nothing
yes to the boyfriends
yes to the dances
yes to the sleepovers
sleep-aways
sleep ins.
Sit down dinners
down-payments on designer
jeans, designer haircuts
designer weddings.
The gown
the chicken marsala
the sparkling champagne
overflowing the green mountains
the nineteenth green
of the designer wedding.
Each item on the maternal to-do list
checked twice.
Prepare the girl
for real life,
for burnt toast,
burnt meatloaf,
burnt wishes
on a burnt birthday cake.
Not on the list.