Birthdays

Without a calendar,
I will know I’m 86
when stickiness of
my left lung matches
density of cicada air.
My right lung will
fuddle some hair
salon with a meat
market—the one
buzzing with fruit
flies forging their
way as house flies
—and I will fall
for the trap, nurse
larvae in my living
room and reap eggs
for food. It’s what
my doctor suggests.
I won’t need a
calendar because
cacophony from
construction will
remind me to call
my grandchildren
—and remind me
again they do not
pick up ’til August,
so I will rise from
my wheelchair and
watch cranes build
87-story skyscrapers,
fourth floors skipped.
This city will ban
cicadas and both
types of flies, coat
meat markets in
cigarette smoke
until I do not
recognize the hair
salon. This will be
a place people call
dandelions   weeds:
yellow buds atop
emerald lawns.
I will resist and eat
dandelions with
the eggs, boil stem-
leaf-petal, drink
the soup. Eat 88
dandelions to fuel
a plane across the
Pacific, gaze at gold
gardens from skies
until I cannot see
the pistils 7337
miles away. Grab
a phone to hear
dandelions over
calls, but they will
not sound the same
saran-wrapped and
stale. Instead, I’ll
look forward to the
two feet and four
wheels pushed by
a family visiting
on my birthday.