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 **** 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 *****,
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 ****
will only make me stronger
(money back guarantee)
I attain a spry five score birthdays
and while away hours
playing solitary game of tiddlywink.