balance

the body 

starts with no strikes

against it, and then one day it reminds

you of that time when you were 22,

playing coed volleyball in a dimly lit gym in Seattle

and you jumped up to block a spike 

and came down on the spiker's foot under the net 

and your right ankle rolled --

and then snapped.

She scored the point; you scored 

a ride to the emergency room.

Now, at nearly 60, you're just about ready to down dog

on your lavender yoga mat 

and it's there again, that right ankle.

That -- and the left hip replaced by titanium

and the right breast absent some flesh

and the left elbow ripped by a riptide

and the arthritis in the thumb.

You try to be grateful 

that it's in your left --

because otherwise

you might not be writing this poem.

They say

the body 

keeps the score --

at this point, I'm just hoping for a tie

between left and right.