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A 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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