The flexible, flower-print girlies traipse
through the back door
and he follows them out
in a shirt of his own design.
There’s never enough sleep for Netflix
and hopping fences,
every cent from making coffee
back into drinking coffee.
He’s a star around here for his wisdom
but I don’t hang around much
to believe it,
to hear his regrets.
He knows that I understand him
but I will not give him what he wants.
When he taps my shoulder I call him “Sir,”
when he compliments me I say “Lookin’ grey,”
and every time he wants me to notice him leave
I ask if he needs a ride home.