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Poem: Old Don Juan 

By the time we reached you on the porch,
you were already three sheets to the wind
with an umbrella pitched in your drink.
You were stark naked, of course,
with your starboard side
reflecting the diffused rays of the sun
through the rattan screen.
It formed a small checker pattern
across your Adam’s apple among
other things.
Your wayward folds and
bemused liver spots
failed to honor the wife
you’ve had for over thirty years.
My mother for one
will never sleep normal again
after seeing your onion form.
It horrifies me to think
she spent her Social Security check
vacationing in the shadow of your fleshy paunch.
You bear no resemblance to the man
she once held close,
my dear father.
Now, please come inside
to finish washing the dishes.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Brendan Blowers.

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