Amorous InfectionMature

a tragic tale of love at an advanced age

Romance tickles my innards like some old ‘hat-in-hand’ cliché. 

How at this old age could something like ardour still grip me?

Even as I contemplate the ruts dug by my prior ill-fated dalliances,

 feet launch bojangled body anew into a parabolic flight of fancy.


And good readers believe, it would be a petunia truly fresh to this nose,

that could tolerate the sway of my signature clod-hopping lurch.

So that the sweeping and dapper genuflection of the baton

which measures my charitably declining expectations is such.


But even at these low lying compatriots of sea level

a crimped daisy appears haloed in sparkling starlight.

For which a nearly tits-up old field mouse like me

could sprawl in the cool grass to admire some midnight.


But alas, all of this magniloquent imagery pales

when hangover’s squint re-accommodates vision.

 Prurient images focus over my waking head;

primitive art scrawled on a lavatory partition.


So rise as I must, to again greet this waking world

I ponder my folly in looking glass reflection.

And realize the flame that once warmed my heart

Now burns that other love organ with a different sort of amorous infection. 

The End

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