Maybe this is the year I finally learn to
take the time to tie my shoelaces
—what kind of shoes do grown-ups wear?--
and floss every night
and use proper punctuation,
even when I text my friends.

My crooked gaze falls on puddles
of rainwater turned upside down
and I break away from aging thoughts
to a place where they let ivy grow on buildings
and friends still come and go but not in a sad way
and dogwood blossoms stop people in their tracks.

Clover and wildflower weeds
contemplate the growth of passersby
and wilting roses watch as I hurry to catch up.
I think I have seven years
to do something great.
Don’t laugh, I think you think so, too.