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The acronym we hear of late
For fear of missing out
Suggests long days and sleepless nights
Of agitated doubt.

Will one get to the sleekest bars
Or other stylish haunts
Like restaurants, like festivals
And such curated wants.

An email bears a subject line
FOMO resorts, FOMO escorts:
We’re FOMO till we die,

At which point we’ll miss quite a lot,
And will forever more.
But missing out, without a doubt,
Starts well short of death’s door.

With finite hours and finite powers
Of where to go, or be.
The thought of missing turns to
Less fear than certainty,

The certainty that one won’t see
The Pyramids or Rome,
Or climb the slopes of Everest
Instead of stairs at home.

Engendering, with fear displaced
A brand-new acronym
That we might tranquilly embrace
In case our spirits dim –

It’s COMO like the placid lake,
The mellow crooner, Perry.
How many tastings can one take
How many beauties marry?

On rising from a COMO bed
One starts the COMO day
With COMO coffee, COMO toast,
And on one’s COMO way.

If COMO stoked desire it could
Be turned into a brand.
In COMO, though, we come to know
The bird that’s in the hand.