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Here’s to the year about to unfold:
My wish for it is not
to lose 10 pounds
or meditate
or change jobs
or exercise more
or learn Italian
or take a drawing class
or see the British isles
or try to appreciate opera,
or Shakespeare or sushi
or pay better attention
so that I notice she’s dyed her hair,
he’s shaved off his beard,
or any of a thousand other things,
besides hair, that I miss
because I live by distraction
with tiny breaks to remind myself
to breathe–
my wish isn’t even to remember
to breathe
without reminders—-which is so basic
you’d think I’d have mastered it by now—- no,
My wish is this—-
To stop expecting disaster.
I plan to stop planning
for the crises, all flavors,
tomorrow could deliver.
I know things crouch in darkness
and will pounce or be stumbled into
But this is the year I stop counting on them,
stop setting the table with good china for unwelcome guests
and listening for the doorbell as dinner bakes.
When troubles knock,
at least they’ll have to get their own damn dinner.

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