Am I the same lazy man I have always been?
Looking down at my right leg I see the scar that the other me carried
for over half of a century, a wound only a quarter inch from severing
my femoral artery, a quarter inch from me watching my oxygen-rich blood
spill out onto the ground under the eaves of my house because while doing 
a simple repair I had not done the simple repair of putting a new spring 
on the blade guard of my circular saw, there it was and there it is,
the foot-long scar ending a quarter inch from ending my life,
a linear life-long reminder of the circular luck that required only
a dozen dozen stitches to bring me into the fertile fields of an old age
orbited by children and grandchildren, and to think but for
a quarter inch they would not have known me for that infinite slice
of time we intersected;
I guess I can say that after the scar I never tried very hard, just sat back
twirling words around the hula hoop of my mind, never doing much
with them but holding them dear, and now even in this after-life
I try never to lose sight of my femoral artery