I could say at 42 I’ve escaped death already many times.
Maybe I was due, like a library book,
at an earlier age, but some spirit renewed me.
I almost drowned at three, then twice got scarlet fever
at 6 and 10. I could have died of my rare bleeding disorder
at 12; thanks to modern prescriptions, life prevailed.
I’ve become an expert at dodging tornadoes
and downed planes, traffic accidents and plain old bad luck.
I’ve been in a lot of hospitals, where doctors made mistakes—
but still, woke up every time, little worse for wear.
I’ve been scared of death, but now he seems so familiar,
an old sweater I’ve casually tossed aside so often.
Please remember when I die that I was lucky
to be here at all—my mother’s pregnancy uneasy,
birth difficult and under an ill star, infancy involving
incubators for a little baby blue me. So when I finally
take the fall, I must remember to say thank you
for the breaks that kept me ahead of the game so long.