I am driven by the imperfection,
forgotten dreams and wasted youth
carved on the face
of a small old man
who boils away each day
in a fading house like mine.

I try to peek in his window but
he chases me quickly from his yard
by yelling at himself in my direction.
Lost years have tucked themselves
in each wrinkled crevice of his mind
where the fury of their decaying stench
explodes randomly
at life’s beautifully imperfect moments.

Infecting my late night thoughts
are images of him as a boy, dreaming
of girls, of cars, of exotic places;
climbing trees that lift their arms
into sunny skies of possibility and hope.

He is my beautifully imperfect moment,
my shining example of orphaned dreams,
a loneliness against which I explode.