My Eighty-Year-Old Neighbor

was flaunting his boney tobacco toosh . . .

Margie Willis


Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Dwelling in these halls of antiquity
more flaccid flesh than I care to see
never thought of myself as rickety
I’m warehoused here due to poverty.

At Sunset Manor folks live to lollygag
first guy next door exited in a body bag
now a chainsmoking amputee windbag
rolls out to the cig bench to bum a drag.

Middle of the night my furry cowpoke
says some grass outside needs a soak
so I clip on leashes and don my cloak
big barren window frames an old bloke.

A four o’clock stooge without a stitch
wonder who this dude’s trying to bewitch
I wish I could say I didn’t feel a twitch
glimpsing a glimmer of his fevered pitch.

Solitary unction at Geriatric Junction
gray gentlemen with a glut of compunction
even Viagra can’t cure such dysfunction
now I’m gawking a gear with gobs of gumption.

Summoning resolve I refuse to rubberneck
but dogs stop to poop, so what the heck
how hard this geezer’s whacking his peck
I wait to see if his jism sandblasts the deck.

A late-night jaunt might become my new fix
spying on codgers engaged with their dicks
let’s face it, I’ve seen all those Pornhub clicks
an aging horndog might be full of new tricks.

I did roll out to drain the dogs at four o’clock and my very old neighbor was standing in front of his uncurtained full-length window, stark naked. Further details in this poem . . . just my imagination running away with me.

Image by annca from Pixabay . . . caption by Margie Willis