These are not accomplishments:
Surviving a year, falling in love, making a promise, taking a loan.
Born in the right place with an inclination to books and worry,
taught in proper schools, passed by luck
(and care and wealth, not mine)
through the shoals of idiot youth,
I’ve done precious little of my own.
A man who’s thirtyish, married and mortgaged
hardly deserves more celebration than a barnacle who’s found a hull.
And yet no less: We’ve found our place, latched on, and won’t let go.