Right Next Door

the old man next door sits forlorn in his plump red chair,
dreams of far vistas in tattered torn underwear,

a tube of dried out Polident squeezed thin
is next to the sink, while his lower bicuspids float
like dentures of doom in a diluted drink of cheap booze.

we laugh in the night’s bleary eyed middle of such a thing
as our bleeding gums and crusty eyes hear the bells ring,

announce the end which is coming no matter what
is done or not, for this to not happen we’d give up our bling,
write poems to distract from, forget we can sing.

oh god how we like to ignore through our myriad
addictions these final times of decline,

the very last breakfast
the slow fade of strawberries' shine,

this shadow cast everywhere
by the black Saturnian whore.