In the past sixty minutes, the mother-poet
has not written a dozen lines. Her resting
heart rate crests 119 beats per minute
twice a day, on average. This began in 2020;
it is 2022. Of her three children, one kicks
the table leg every seven seconds, another
counts songbirds in the quarter-acre yard aloud,
a third reads from a book of little-known statistics:
The safest color car is white; two out of five
people marry their first love; a woman
is more likely to be killed by a champagne cork
than a shark. In her inbox, a litmag says
no thanks, but send more poems. In other news,
a Japanese amusement park advises patrons scream
inside their hearts. Sea level rise holds steady
at one-eighth of an inch per year. Four out of five
surveyed Americans are likely to describe the sun
as shining. It is almost dinnertime; no trains
leaving the station. There are over 10 trillion living
cells in every human body. Based on this set
of data calculate the future probable
with a single roll of one icosahedron die.
