A Portrait of the Pretend Poet as an Old Man

And then the flatulence -
as always, without warning,
permission or consideration.
It cares not whether I am surrounded
by friends or strangers
in a stuffy room
where winter prohibits
windows from being opened.

Or whether I'm in a compact car
filled with awkward silence
and Serena -
a winter woman
I was trying to seduce.

If only I could be a cow
in a rolling meadow
carpeted with buttercups.
Cows aren't bothered by flatulent friends.
They find nothing funny 
about the lack of control age inflicts.
Cows, with their wise, soulful eyes,
know nothing dignified happens near the end.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me.

Or so it seems -
maybe they're just smiling near me.
It's hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I'm looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I'm moving slower than the year before
and can't keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast? 
 
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief