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.