No Reason To Complain

Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being

objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address

no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages

of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)

impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this

muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,

thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated

in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even

on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear

ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter

sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone

somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome

ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.