Three birthdays in a row:
a president’s, 
whose luminous picture had shielded 
my war-ridden childhood,
a diva’s,
who once celebrated the birthday of the president
with a song that enthralled,
and mine, that every year passes without a single hello.
Long dead are JFK and Marilyn Monroe, 
but their birthdays are celebrated anew, 
and though I am still alive,
mine passes without a single candle,
a word, or a symbolic cadeau.