Abstract
32 red, 17 black, or vice versa.
Roulette, a game of chance,
the ball falls, and you win or you lose,
but eventually, like all gambling, you lose.
Like life.
Save for Vegas, where the ball falls, and there's
always a winner, yes sir, “We got a winner here.”
But in the gambling of genomics,
when the ball falls, there's a
loser—time's up, time's done, pack your bags,
nice suit, nice dress, nice words—an impatient tugging
from six feet under.
The waiting can become anxious, even tedious,
as the years adjoin and the wrinkles sprout,
but always, as a reminder, as if we need a reminder,
the Sword of Damocles swings below our chin,
ever closer to the carotid of breath.
So I sit and promise: do things differently,
make changes, move to a new city, sleep more,
eat more chocolate, spend less time at work.
Yet I sit, unchanged, unmoved, masked in
hopeful hope but missing of energy, tethered
to conscious procrastination, alarm clock
ringing, pillow wet with saliva, patients dying.
And the ball goes round and round on the little
wheel, spinning and spinning, neither here nor
there, but somewhere in between—for now.