Margin of Error

My Pom's 15, a centenarian dog, but that's nothing to a tortoise.
And next to a creosote bush in the Mojave Desert, oldest living
protoplasm on earth,
it's a breath. And earth's history, compared to the universe,
an hour of yogic breathing.
Such a tiny fraction, so little between
.000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
and zero, my life
falls within the same statistical margin of error
as a cat struck in the fast lane
glued by its tail to blacktop, thrashing
to separate from skin