By chance I sit just here
in this shaded place.
The die of life plays me
I roll a six, jump in glee.
I can roll again
the rules allow me.

Ah! a second six
and I’m on a high
but now, a one
the pedestrian path
day in day out
the wearing gait.

Still by chance,
I’m dealt a choice,
I can read, write, cheese sandwiches make.
I can kiss your eyes, or just as easily,
hurt and maim
if the die, fall that way.

By chance I am sick or well.
By chance (is it a three or four
thrown thrice?) when they come
for me, call me soiled stock,
look away as I flay, desperate
to die another day.

My aunt did just that,
by chance she’d made
one hundred and one
bent over with no breath
to roll another round.
She’s laid now underground.

I throw the die,
there is no nil at play,
life merely casts
it’s perfect design
when the zero-sum
game is flung.


© Rosalie Fishman 2021