Sixty new things I said I’d do
in my sixtieth year now
a burden a chore an albatross
not the thrilling party I’d envisioned.
The fried pig’s head so unappealing
the various cocktails disappointing
the left side of the bed unsettling
my whistling ever yet sub par
the skydive still looming
and with five weeks left
forty-seven down, thirteen to go
the inner nagging does not let up.
What else what next what’s new?
I’ll try making marshmallows
dye my hair purple
learn fifty new words
and when at last this year is over
return to Life As Usual
no promise no pressure no pact
each new encounter a lovely surprise
undertaken for the sheer joy of it.