(Although I use these words especially
in January I dislike them and the idea
of all that I meant to do. But still.)
I meant to gather 50 good poems
by November and now it’s January 10.
Only a few sit in the file on my desk.
I meant to read The Little Life by now
and a stack of other books next to my bed.
I meant to take more classes on line
not only the Yale class on Happiness
which was Just OK. I meant
to do something I’ve never done and learn
sign language and meditate and call
my mother’s friend Joan I’ve always loved her
once a month and ask Len the homeless food critic
on the corner what his favorite meal is
and bring it to him and find out more
about Hamid who has a Hallel truck downstairs
and keep writing my episodic mystery
about Mrs. Israel a 92 year old detective
in a rent controlled apartment who only wears
Talbot suits and I meant to volunteer on line
somewhere and write at least one real letter
by hand every week and go to the library
more often and draw with Ahava
and take every pair of shoes I haven’t worn
in a while and give them to housing works
(even though I might love them) and go through
the books and then figure out
with the process of elimination being
the prevalent rule what I actually meant to do.
So relatable! Love this, love your ambitions. Takes a lifetime or more doesn’t it?
Give yourself a break. XO