The bar of each year of your life is set like a game of Limbo
to wriggle or shimmy under, or just barely slip through that period
of the film where what you sought was not what you got.
You didn’t plan for the letter you sent to be returned to sender,
the grain of your own handwriting on the envelope covered
in the high court of post office codes. You wanted to keep in touch.
This year you tried to reach out, connect, bend toward the light
backwards. Look at you! Trying! The revelers at your beach
didn’t get the file on the quiet you needed. They all danced,
played their ukuleles in the key of too loud.
You fell into their barbecue pit.
Well now, it’s time to walk on fire, match the accident
with an event of your own making, strike a note
of such volume the string vibrates its highest and resonates
for nothing but the greater good. You meant it, see? Springy
footsteps are the answer. Bounce the inflated ball into the air
but don’t expect to know where it will land since seals have a way
of popping their charmed noses up. You can’t decide on a deck
or a basement when it comes to levels for this year, but the cast
holds the rope anyway. You choose how to pass under it,
trip on a brick, sail through the air, land on a flowered towel
or in the surf. It’s all finesse, seeds of foam at the shore’s edge
as the audience gets a wink of a mermaid’s tail. Credits. Song.