Octogenarian

At eighty, my doctors and I
play Russian roulette.
They’re a five-shot revolver:
primary, eyes, heart, internal, skin.
And skin really can’t really fire
unless I develop leprosy.

Three or four times a year,
I’ve heard the firing pin click
on a charge of empty news.
“Everything looks good.”
“You still don’t need glasses.”
“Your heart’s in good shape.”

But I’m slower, and stiffer,
more forgetful, and deafer,
weaker, and sleepier.
Maybe it’s not Russian roulette;
maybe it’s just demise
by a thousand little snips.