The old man who watches my
wife has the nicest front lawn in town.
Irish green and uniform, it
snickers at my crabby, patchy
excuse for a contender.
From my upstairs side window
I spy his rolling, nitrogen-
rich masterpiece unequaled by
my tireless efforts.
Try as I may to win this
Rumble in the Suburban Jungle,
the old champ lands a devastating
uppercut at the end of each round.
But,
whenever frustration turns to
anger in this heavenly window,
I look to his back-yard,
where, sweaty face pressed wrinkly
on the wooden fence,
he sweats, struggling to
glimpse the tanned upper thighs of
my wife, Ellen, as she unknowingly
tends to her garden.
I guess what they say is true.
