This is the year I’ll divine with rods
get better at love, worse at eating
I’ll make beelines for honeydew.
Won’t touch Snickers. Won’t snicker, either.
I promise I’ll be good good good,
especially to my minister. If he again tells
Lorna Miller not to get divorced, I will
drive the highest road. We won’t scoff over
Also, I will make a fish tank. The fish at
Walmart are sad. Their mouths say,
“home home home.” I will spend
more time at home. No more two dollar
coffees, maybe once a moon. Cock Full o’ Nuts
in the pot I own. For sure no four
dollar coffees, Vicki’s Secret, Quizznos,
Gray Goose, Claiborne tops (even though she died)
or those Paige Jeans I’ve been dying
not to live without.
I will keep a journal: self-tabs. Next year,
I will know what I ate thought did on March 2.
Ride a unicycle. Make a marionette,
Volunteer, candy stripe, read to teh elderly.
Eat more elderly cheese,
Bleu. Try caviar, switch to skim When Maria
asks me to be her wing woman, I won’t
say I know flying already.
Do what hurts. Use Fewer Band Aids.
I’ll read The Unbearable Lightness of
Being and remember how daily how light
it is to be.