The last time I sang “Happy Birthday,” I was 7 years old and it meant nothing to me. This past weekend, I sang it–along with about 40 others–to a man who recently turned 85. We had meat and cake. We had the spirit of many years in the room with us. We had the best damn poet in the world making us all feel that the decisions we made to follow poetry all those decades ago were the correct ones. Thank you, Philip Levine, for all of it. Here’s looking forward to the 95th…the 105th…the….