Seventy

Who knew this day would come at last?
Born amid the Cold War's fury,
The rhetoric and imminent danger
Of fire falling from the sky;
Raised in eras of decadent plenty;
Dodging the pitfalls of overindulgence;
Riding crests of love, always easing and ebbing;
Weaving a path through potential careers
While keeping a nebulous goal in mind:
A life dedicated to words and music.
I did not suffer from stereotypical
Artists' ordeals, I never discovered
My "crowd," my milieu, and for that reason,
I am deficient.
Yet I proceed; like a mule, I persist,
As I line my memorial crypt
With wreaths.