Jack is the man.  He is planted 
on the front porch of the condominium,

always decked Hollywood glamorous
in accoutrements so fine

he draws attention from the men
and the ladies walking out every night.

What’s he waiting for
at age ninety four with a one pint flask 

of gin feeding his frame 
that fast forwards him into a bed

before eight?  Shit faced!
Jack’s hair is peppered white, worn

with globs of pomade, blue
and tacky, buffed as the shiny

grey of the sporty Ford Mustang
he sadly sold last summer

because he forgot he had to haul
an enormous red hoveround,

and his doctor restricted
his movements.

Jack’s best friend 
is Amazon.

He once told me the way to live
in style is to wear something

for a day or two, 
then send it back.

Today, I saw him in tweed golf pants,
loafers, a bright yellow silk shirt,

and a canary white ascot after
the stylishness of Cary Grant. 

The lobby always has packages.
JACK N.  Unit 2 —  on at least one

box every single day.
I don’t know who he’s dressing for.

He’s not a great conversationalist
unless hammered,

and I can see a fading light
in his eyes.

I don’t know if it’s too late for him,
but I think he’s so beautiful

I could cry.