After the move, there are new things to write 100 times on a sheet of paper
I will mitigate chronic grumbles with occasional watermelon
I will acquiesce to opportunities for sudden bliss
I will recite the litany of names of friendly neighbors, dogs included
I will quell the urge to hang wet sheets on a phantom clothesline
I will keep Comfortable with Uncertainty close to hand
I will simulate contentment until the real thing fits like a soft sweater
I will lift the needle from the turntable before it plays a dangerous song
On the other side of the page, these:
I must not pave a new rut with old regret
I must not try to exit the wrong door
I must not turn savage when I cannot find my lost purpose in the other room
I must not heap coals of annoyance on non-existent dead embers
I must not mistake inconvenience for cataclysm
I must not disturb the new breed of sleeping dog
I must not misplace the moon