This double digit is a harbinger of luck,
its componets of seven and eleven
are naturals in the game of craps
where the shooter achieves a pass,
alas for me it’s no certain trick.

I’m fourth generation of potato men
who came from County Mayo to escape
starvation. the tombs of the three
before me are lined up in ascending row
in the cemetery on Old Mayfield road 
three miles from my childhood home.

Michael, who rode over on the Irish boat,
drove a horse-drawn dray loading
and unloading heavy loads all day. 
He died at the age of forty-four.
James Joseph (my name sake grandfather),
a traveling salesman, came up in the world
until he went down at fifty-five.
Patrick, my father, who I cannot explain
in a line or two, went to his rest,
as they say, at age sixty-six.

That I have reached the next milestone
in this progression does not keep me awake.
Unlike my forebearers noone can say
He Died Young.

I’ve always liked to play with numbers
and so I mark my life in seven stages
with eleven years for each. In this one
I’m Innocent, in that one Guilty,
or Greedy or Angry or Loving
or Overcome With Loss.
In this seventh stage 
I’m trying to shuffle toward Mindfulness
so I can let the eighth be what it is