7200
Yikes, aside
from mental
health re:
psychotherapy,
which haint
the worse
cyst phase
of being
objectionably
called "old man",
this poem
doth tack
toward
the no body,
and will
address
no illusory
(no app for)
pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-
mo ravages
of aging,
evincing
and inching into
solid AARP
universe
suddenly (moon
if fish int lee)
impinges
on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures
tubby terse
though (oh
my this
muttering ole
hound)
chronologically
traversing that
arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary
Maginot line
i.e. almost
three score year,
thy esprit
de corps unlike
complaining
crotchety
curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland
Manor situated
in Schwenksville,
Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do
daily air
lamentations
kvetching even
on days pitch
perfect and clear
find some bugaboo
to gripe about
which
dispositions hardly
makes them
endear
ring at least
to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz
licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade
of life,
when a tell
tale battle
of the
bulge paunch
finds mine
equatorial zone
somewhat flabby,
a mockery
of washboard
blubbery
abdominal
sculpted tone
engirdled with
loathsome
ample
"NON FAKE"
lovely
jowly handles
which I
hate, though
human flesh
naturally prone
to the lowest
point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones
to groan.
