I wrote a little poem to give everyone back at home a taste of my luxurious Hollywood life.
Crazy Old Guy
You sit on the porch in your underwear
With your gang of Mexican children
Feeding those invisible birds
Crumbs of bread straight from the loaf
Followed up by a long hand-wash
Every day
Of the cherry red Nissan I’ve never actually seen you drive.
I must be so interesting to watch
Since your head pops in the window
Like a fucking jack-in-the-box
Each time I pull into my driveway.
Not that I wouldn’t miss your crooked, brown face
Behind that thin scrap of curtain
In your living room filled with Turkish trinkets
Or is it Greek? Maybe Italian? Whatever you are
You are certainly strange
Crazy Old Guy.
And not that I don’t appreciate your window of concern
Except that your concern looks a lot like suspicion.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop
My Nachos Bell Grande all over your car,
At least, not while you’re watching.
I’m going straight upstairs
To eat quietly
Blast the TV volume to drown out
The mangled string of foreign or, it is my belief,
Pure gibberish obscenities, impressively loud
Spilling out your gargoyle mouth;
I know they are obscenities,
Because of the passion with which you preach
To those damn invisible birds
Soaring over your gang of Mexican children
While you sit on the porch in your underwear.
..
