The doctor tells me to avoid bar fights
roller coasters and whiplash.
I assure her I can easily avoid
two of three decrease my odds
of further damage. She calls what happened
posterior vitreous detachment. I understand
two of three words and I look up the other
laugh at the cliché how tired
the metaphor it’s about aging shrinking
pulling away. My doctor who might be
all of twenty-eight hardly smiles
when I point out the irony of avoiding risk
to prevent further detachment.
She tells me I should let her know
if these things happen – more dark floating shapes
brief flashes of light or something like
a curtain closing.
I tell the doctor only two of those three
horrify me. Again she hardly smiles
And I can’t help but laugh.