|When Pigs Flu|
|Written by Steven McClellan|
Growing up, my mother told me that pigs would someday fly.
She forgot to tell me that when they do, I’d feel like death, or die
Day one hit and I felt off, but I was not persuaded.
I kept my smile to ward it off, but its insistence never faded.
Come noon or four, or six or one, or was it two or three?
This, precisely, marked the time, when the swine infected me.
My ears plugged up, my heart was pounding; at least I was at home.
Though far from it, ‘twould seem a gift, that I was not alone.
Four of us, we stammered around, like a gang drunken pirates.
Synchronized vomiting, my favorite part, don’t knock it till you try it!
Hot is hot, I kid you not, but these swine, they burn much hotter.
OK, tough guy, 104, you win; you beat both dad and daughter.
Dripping sweat, screaming joints and skin that’s so very tender.
A reaper visit, scythe and all, he greets you as your ender.
A sea of spent tissues, I stand amongst; I beg for a reprieve.
He scowls and grunts, lowers his blade, and then he turns and leaves.
With that, the fever drops and we begin to feel less un-great.
A glance at our calendar says we made it to day eight!
The time has come to wrap it up with this feverish tale of mine,
detailing my battle, each of our battles, with those swooping and flying swine.
—The hospitals do not test for swine flu unless you are admitted, so we don’t know if we actually had swine flu or standard issue influenza. It really doesn’t matter, but calling it swine made the poem much more fun. For those who cringe at me mocking death, mom, I say this: “If you are not ready to die, you are not ready to live.” Marlo, since you are yet not out of the woods and you are a baby on Tamiflu, I promise you this: if you die on a Wednesday, you can bet your bottom dollar that you had lived on Tuesday. I love you baby girl, Papa Bear.