my worst birthday, ever

at twenty-two, I did the math
and counted weeks—to say
“guess what, my birthday (twenty-three)
will fall on Transfer Day.”

in our program, each six weeks
new bodies joined the fun
and we sent home the boys and girls
whose British time was done

and so, to make sure there was room
for old folks to train new,
on one long day in each six weeks
we shuffled who’s with who

but I was sure this transfer day
I wouldn’t have to move
‘cause every other Transfer Day
before, I had removed.

so, Saturday, it came and went,
and held no moving news
then Sunday came—we got the call
enough to make me blue

both me and Mandy had to move,
from Yorkshire to the Lakes
tomorrow morn, no time to find
a ride, for goodness sake

with speed we packed and called goodbyes
to all our Yorkshire friends
dragged baggage down five flights of stairs
across the street and then

up more stairs to the platform where
we could catch a train
to Wigan, and switch lines from there
to Kendal (there was rain)

to our shock, in Wigan there were
two train depots to meet
at speed we dragged our heavy lives
straight down a Wigan street

baggage has this way of gaining
weight the more it’s dragged
by Kendal, strength had vanished,
and our suitcase rollers sagged

but we were there—and knew not where
to find this brand new flat
so tired and sore, on depot porch,
I sank down with a splat

and cried. that’s when the taxi came
the fellow had our key
he brought us home (more stairs? oh yes)
then left us to our tea

we washed, unpacked, and found the time
to write notes to our boss
my note explained my birthday trek
one hundred miles across

I said, “I’ll fight you, tooth and nail
before I move again,
imagine doing such a thing
on your birthday, my friend”

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