It’s not as if I have a lot of it,
20 years, physicians agree,
before malevolent cells,
untrapped by surgery, unzapped by X-rays,
begin to get me. They used to seem
like a lot, 20 years. Besides,
at 93, how much of my mind
will function anyway?
So why on this bright, cool afternoon
have I merely drunk iced coffee,
read a magazine from the afternoon mail,
sat down to write these words?