I’ve been told
I’m a nervous narrator,
but I disagree.
Just- how can I know
if this poem will be the last-
the last thing I ever write?
How do I know I’ll be able
to read it out loud?
My larynx could,
quite simply,
stop working.
Blindness could set in.
I’m already myopic.
It’s a small step-
really, just a small one!
I swear I’ll be blind-
blinder than a politician-
by the time 30 years
have passed me by.
If 30 years pass me by,
Pneumonia will take me first.
Influenza, rubella,
cholera, smallpox- anthrax!
ebola, Bubonic Plague-
dear god, I already
feel my throat closing!
Beg Apollo to use
his healing powers
to spare this young student-
ease my maladies quickly
before they take me.
Laryngitis, I feel it!
Pardon, I must leave-
have to write my will-
would you sanitize my room
while I sleep?
Please, check my temperature!
Nothing?
It must be broken, no-
I swear I have a fever!
At least 150 degrees!
Take my hand-
no, put on gloves first-
and lead me to salvation.
Hold me as I die-
No, for real this time!
You fancy me mad?
Actually, I may have-
What do you mean,
Maladie Imaginaire?
No chance! It must be-
It’s tuberculosis!
Hypochondria, you say?
Holy meningitis, quarantine me!
Is it contagious?