“Fish oils,” my doctor snorted, “and oily fish

are actually good for you. What’s actually wrong

for anyone your age are all those dishes

with thick sauce that we all pined for so long

as we were young and poor. Now we can afford

to order such things, just not to digest them;

we find what bills we’ve run up in the stored

plaque and fat cells of our next stress test.”

My own last test scored in the top 10 percent

of males in my age bracket. Which defies

all consequences or justice—I’ve spent

years shackled to my desk, saved from all exercise.

My dentist, next: “Your teeth seem quite good

for someone your age, better than we’d expect

with so few checkups or cleanings. Teeth should

repay you with more grief for such neglect”—

echoing how my mother always nagged,

“Brush a full 100 strokes,” and would jam

cod liver oil down our throats till we’d go gagging

off to flu-filled classrooms, crammed

with vegetables and vitamins. By now,

I’ve outlasted both parents whose plain food

and firm ordinance must have endowed

this heart’s tough muscle—weak still in gratitude.