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Not Exactly It

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.

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