Horst

He can’t tell them what he wants

lost in another vodka fog
sneezing green balls of phlegm
into his palm while
searching for Kleenex.

His hairless
white belly
distended inside a white t-shirt
overlapping beige
shorts, the only pair that he can find,
as he mechanically belches
and squeezes out farts
that would’ve put Hitler to shame
singing old German opera
unable to resurrect his youth
failing to amuse his
sedated audience.

Happy hour begins at eleven
in his tiny world
and continues
long into the night
every night
as he salutes the setting sun
with cracked deformed nails
constipated and
cursing at his bad luck
and to anyone who will listen
pausing for a moment as
he tries to ingratiate himself
on a practiced widow
down the hall from his room.