His Final Pvc's Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

His distant friend,
so well respected
by all, had written
that there was nothing
that would, in the end
reverse the weakening
of the histology,
(he put it nicely) ,
and that the DNA
would not take
kindly to all the stress,
would certainly
and with a vengeance
recall the whipping.

Disturbing news,
he found,
are dealt with best
by metamorphosis,
and so, against
the truth itself
he dithered,
and procrastinated,
and in defiance
created endorphins
and did persist
by telling this,
his tired horse
that whipping
had to be endured,
in fact it would improve
and make immortal
those very cells that,
in the nick of time,
in days forgotten,
had pulled themselves
out of the grip of...
the one they call
the reaper of cardiology.

'Myocarditis', he'd said
will never leave
the heart unscathed,
one cannot now,
or in the future
ignore this fact
and then persist
with playing to
an audience
of youngish, braless
women and the like,
and run the marathon
as if the tide had turned
and youth been resurrected.

But, there is always,
on this cruel earth
a choice, speak up
and come to me,
it is essential now
that words to the effect
of myocardial balm
be offered by the voice
of great authority.
It is subjective,
after all and one must,
to rest assured,
decide which truth
would be authentic,
and thus, convenient.

A brilliant man,
lives in the land
where Longhorns roam
came to the party
armed with smiles
and reassurance.
It sometimes helps
to ask the question
in a way that pleases
both ear and mind
as if it had suspended
accountability.

And so it was
that, like Jim Fixx,
he ran and ran
until the day arrived
where only cirrhus clouds
were witness to the tragedy.
A painful fistful of PVC's,
those squeezes that,
in any circumstance
no heart would want.
They are the ones
that choke you heartily,
with excess kindness,
with which they kill you.
When they dropped in
to visit him just once
he knew the truth
and reaped its punishment
though only for a minute.
Then he was gone.

And rumours have it,
that on the other side
of cirrhus clouds,
there is a runner,
a stubborn man,
who still defies
all odds,
and utters only
those words of wisdom
that suit.
But, on the other hand
the laws of cardiology
do not apply up there.