Forth vaccination boosts acquiescence toward mortality

I revised a poem written

January twenty second

last year – two thousand twenty one

regarding gratitude for Medicare

Insurance to foot the bill

concerning ability to heal
courtesy immune system

undergoing toe till agency

or closest approximation thereof

impossible mission to undergo
one hundred percent protection

against contracting deadly illness,
viz latest epidemic impacting civilization.

Here at Highland Manor Apartments

Saturday January twenty third,

two thousand and twenty one,

I attest yours truly

received the first (of four)

inoculations to stave off

getting COVID-19,

thus mine poetic title

might not seem absurd.

Wednesday February third

and Friday October twenty second

same year as above

witnessed himself receiving
second and third injections respectively

to diminish vulnerability
contracting transmissible pathogen.

Today Wednesday April sixth

two thousand twenty two

poet of Perkiomen Valley

received the fourth
bringing him up to date

(or speed if you prefer druggist's lingo)

with Center for disease

control recommendations.

Aforementioned stance toward death
(meaning taking preventative measures
to live healthy existence)

obviously avoid Saturday night fever

regarding desire Stayin' Alive

and most oppressive

when mine mental, physical

and/or spiritual yours truly

takes a (swan) dive

analogous where bajillion bees

swarm from their hive.

Linkedin with well known poem by and by

penned by Emily Dickinson, I didst decry

expressed her relief

to surender release

and amazingly gracefully die

"Because I could not stop for Death,"

she aptly crafted verses to comply

reverently, merrily, and gloriously accepting

cessation of existence well nigh

as does one garden variety generic goofy guy.

All natural catastrophes aside,

plus excluding thermonuclear war,

where civilization would get fried

nullifying idea viz,

let conscience be your guide,

nor no place to run and hide

left to grapple with dystopian quandary

shuttering fright housed inside

in one poof annihilating prejudice

(white privilege included) and pride

reducing to ashes trumpeting

self importance, where snide

persona grata becomes irrelevant

as does living social

or vacationing in Telluride.

Interestingly enough,

I do not entertain notions

inflicting self harm nor suicide,

but expect longevity (to ride

one after another orbitz around the sun)

minimum total (represented courtesy

value units and tens place)

equaling the largest double digit

in plain Olde English aged

to perfection groom and bride

attains at least ninety nine years.

Despite skittering within hair's breadth or blink

looming over the edge no time to think,

cuz no matter being knight in shining armor

I can scrunch and squint thru visored chink,

and espy and the title

of a storied book by Tom Wolfe I think

Old Rotten Gotham sliding into behavioral sink,

amidst so much flotsam and jetsam

while singing Skidamarink

surrender unavoidable fate

cuz destiny dis rapper doth not shrink

and recognizes that whatever does not kill

will only make me stronger

(money back guarantee)

I attain a spry five score birthdays

and while away hours

playing solitary game of tiddlywink.