A continuous roll, six-sided dice.
A familiar fluorescent light humming
with power sways above.
Mom’s next, her mass of chips,
metastasizing with each turn,
each gamble.
Round, green carpet-covered tables span the room
surrounded by bar stools and dangling feet
and the snapping of cards on the table top
as each person is dealt their game.
Grandma’s faded floral shirt lays flat
on her chest.
She flips a chip in her hand,
the gold writing glistening in the light.

Slot machines spin,
awaiting the odds,
and the clink of red glasses
spreads throughout the room.
I wait for my time.
Grasping dice in perspiring hands,
shaking the odds.
The dice roll,
toppling over and over,
letting genes decide.
There isn’t a thing I do
that keeps cancer
from crossing my mind.
Feels like something strange –
like diving head first from a cliff
into the crashing waves,
not knowing what grows just below the surface.
Or maybe,
maybe like gasping
for air
when diseased lungs collapse.