Five six

My physical was devastating.
True, the tests were OK,
Most body parts were functioning well.
Death remained more likely
To come in the form of a speeding car
Than an elevated blood-pressure.

But five-six!
All these years of self delusion
Crashing down on a pathetic little runt.
So cruel a fate.

My father claimed that number.
When he was five six I grew taller.
At least five eight, maybe five nine.
Was he merely five four?

Convinced that I would reach at least six three
I had planned an NBA career.
Distraught, when my plan shriveled.
It took years to accept five nine.

Maybe my unsanfarized body
Diminished over these last few months
And I had been really, nearly, five ten for years?
Now I am short again.

It ‘s a bitter blow:
Shortest guy in the elevator.
Once again I must carry Job’s burden.
There is no god.