I say, let the clock keep ticking.
I may be on overtime. My white
Cell count is ten times what it ought
To be. My red count's low.
The implication is, I'll die at some
Point, though I feel okay. With death
Nearing at a pace nobody seems to
Understand, and, with my strength
Becoming suspect, mostly, I think,
Due to age, I'll climb aboard my
Motorcycle, twist the grip and duck
My head until I've gotten to 160.
At that pace, the clock becomes
Irrelevant. I just hang on, and white
Cell counts no longer matter.
Calendars are for the little shits
Who vote conservative. I'm going
To die. That much is clear, but, until
Someone tells me when, I'll persist
With what I've been doing, heedless
Of both lab reports and moments
Passing by.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 21 times
Written on 2021-10-08 at 03:59

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