If Covid Gets Me

If Covid gets me

I’ll lie in my bed

and think of the things

might have killed me instead

Like my rattly chest

that once filled with pus

my mother so fearful

me not wanting a fuss.

Propped up with pillows

and gasping for breath

a ministering angel

quelled the clarion of death.

Or that time in France

a tree split my head

my daughters’ wild wailing

white shirt spattered red.

Or that taxi ride

we took, to A and E

I’d self-diagnosed

dodgy duck confit.

My face was as white

as a loving cup

the very next day

they opened me up.

That fall from the roof

should’ve finished me off

two windows sailed past

but the landing was soft.

If Covid gets me

I’ll lie down and wait

think only of good things

my pass at the gate.

This fine old wine bottle 

I’ll drink to the dregs

then take to recycling

on my own two legs.