National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day

Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy
solely to acknowledge hardship

of A. R. Harris

and her husband M.S. Harris,

who cope poorly

(even courtesy medication)
with anxiety attacks, especially when

violated, probed, interrogated courtesy

Highland Manor inquisition,

which traumatizing event happened

on aforementioned date

included with poem title.

J. G. and P. F.
constitute management team

under jurisdiction of Quoss

(pronounced chhath tt) and Grade,

who espouse principle laissez faire

but whose exhibited heavy handedness
pertaining to the married couple

named in the third line of this poem.

Either one or the other gals

who attend these premises

here at the Schwenksville location

(I won't mention

the state as penile solitude)

alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor
emanating from unit B44,

our man/woman cave.

We received a twenty four hour deadline

to get into shipshape the disarray

messiness even Pigpen

would find abominable,

yet upon receiving both

oral and written admonition,

me and the missus

buckled down and kickstarted

frenzied whirlwind one bedroom

apartment cleaning spree

zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill

when the clock struck bewitching hour,
more specifically that alluded time

synonymous with midnight.

No matter we felt dead tired

whereat neither option

to acquire additional time,

nor desist existed,

and yet nearly impossible mission

to continue, but appealing

to temptation of sandman

out of the question.

Deep sleep for the weary

appeared oh so heavenly,

on par with plate

of powder milk biscuits,

our mandate (analogous to pilgrims

adults and children -

forced to fight in crusades)

forbid cessation, thus to plod

and plow onward

despite overwhelming urge to plotz,

(not the slang definition)

found yours truly

blissfully in dreamland
when me noggin hit the pillow,

Not for a minute

could yours truly

sit down and take a breather,

despite severe lower

(rightside) back pain.

Said dull throbbing ache
diagnosed as tight muscles

by Doctor (physical therapist)
John R. Mishock,

he would not countenance
(approve, comply, honor...)
I popped one Ibuprofen.