From where I sit,

there is an extraordinary view

of my neighbor’s garden.

A hilly affair of steps,

water absorbing rock, ferns

and the bluest of azaleas.

He is an older man, haggard

prone to bowing unexpectedly

recovering too late to save face.

Every few hours he exits his house,

walks forty feet or so, pauses amongst

the periphery of a retaining wall,

and urinates copiously, dramatically.

His wang does not in any way threaten

a Callow entendre event.

The clouds are truly unaffected.

The national debt remains consistent.

In some climates he would be arrested.

I will probably inform his youngest son

who visits every third week reliably.

Surprised, he’ll give me his wide eyed look

a combination of camp and recessive doubt.

 

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