If I can sue my knees for non-support,
I can bring charges against
my heart, my eyes, my stomach.
Years ago, my internal organs
purred along in a working and efficient manner,
and except for an occasional illness
I pretty much took my health for granted,
the symphony of all parts working in sync.
Now, when I wake up,
I do an informal roll call
listening to various areas
who wish to request a sick day.
Doctors assure me I’m still good,
but I do wonder how long
my internal clock will continue to run.
I do not fear mortality, just incapacity.
I wish for all my interior structures
to message me and say, “You’re in
the clear, pal, at least for a few more years.”
THE POETRY OF THE GAME