Poem: March 1, 2019

Who's in Charge Around Here?

50 years and nearly 6 months have passed
since my mother pushed me out into the world
in the late summer of 1968, which I am
given to understand, was an eventful
and turbulent time, not just for mom,
but for America and for the world at large.
I couldn't really say, not having specific
memories from that time, but it seems
to be the historical consensus nevertheless.
I'd like to imagine that such an auspicious
beginning might indicate that I am a man
destined for great things, brought into
the world to change it, to make my presence
known through daily examples of impressive,
unparalleled acts and original thought.
But then, there were an awful lot of us
born that year, what with all the free love,
experimental drugs, and social tensions
that I suspect must have driven people
into the temporary comfort of each others
flowered vans, and beds, and arms.
And I have to say that I haven't noticed
anything particularly grand or remarkable
about my fellow quinquagenerians, however
delightful that distinction may be to say.
We don't seem to be any more or less likely
to be people of destiny or heroes of the day.
I'm not so much accomplished as I am
shocked to find that so much time has passed
without fanfare or even any real accounting
for how my five decades have been spent.
It makes one wonder about management.
What's going on up there that 50 years pass
without any form of performance review or
value-added assessment or measurement
of perceived return on investment, or even
a simple cost/benefit analysis of the effort
and resources devoted to maintaining me.
I mean, I'm not saying I haven't been doing
my job, or suggesting that there have been
consistent failures or customer complaints.
I just think it might be nice to know
that someone in a supervisory role takes
the occasional moment to check a box,
to note that my time on Earth has been shown
to be productive, professional, and highly effective.