I sit here in my recliner fiddling with my
computer, search for words this morning.
The nurse from the VA is scheduled to be
here at my place in about an hour at 9AM.
So, needless to say, I am preoccupied with
that appointment. And looks like poetry from
me is put on hold for the time being anyway.
She will draw blood for lab work, and give me
a flu shot. Both she and I will be wearing masks,
a precautionary measure against the possible
spreading of the Corona Virus. No damn wonder
positive words won’t come.
“I’ll make it a quick visit,” she guaranteed me
over the phone, a couple of needle pokes and
we’re done.” All this hassle over little old deterior-
ating me. I’m 73. How much longer do I have on
this Earth, anyway? Sometimes all this attention
seems a waste.
There are a lot of ways to die these days.
Suppose throughout mankind’s history that
has always been the case. I don’t go anywhere,
stay pretty well confined to my place. Don’t drive
a car or take air flights anymore. So, I have illimi-
nated those possible causes for my demise.
That leaves the flu, a fatal virus, stroke and heart
attacks. I could loose my balance, take a fall and
break my neck.
Had I not made the appointment for today, I may
have had time to write about something more
pleasant than old age and inevitable death.
Suppose both you and I will just have to take what
we get on any given day.
It may be sufficient and appropriate to say, I hate
friggin’ needles.
-30-
Chris Hanch 10-19-2020
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