The Gigolo Poem by James McLain

I was the dog,
That none of these women would own.
Most had long, very strong neck muscles,
And high cheek bones and mild cataracts,
Day and night, coming and going.
The sidewalk's,
Never ended and were all cracked.
Plants once green, brown dead in the pots.

Using the manic stage, of my pi polar disorder,
I needed to maintain a strict discipline to service them all.
Cleaning their pools, doing window's, house work and
Doing their laundry turned them on.
Fixations, on vacuuming thick shag carpets.

The post man rang only once, and I would
Answer her phone.
I would call collect and older women,
Would in their many different needs, I learned
To accept.

Bushes full of lizards, tree's full of leaves,
Being joined by the head, intellectual women,
Responded best,
When they could see, looking up that the moon
Would again be full.

Real estate being sold, the cul-de-sac,
Being larger sold best.
Living off of their long since dead husband's,
life insurance policies.

They were to old to wear ring's through their
Noses,
No mention by me, about old family photographs.
When with me they were safe.
Their pasts were so long ago everything now,
Repetitive done was now instinctive.

So I would bring them fish, fish that I caught with
My net,
Like he did two thousand years ago,
And then afterwards I would cook and relax.
Mix them a drink,
Washing the dishes again.

I understand better now why older women,
Like green furniture.
And wore leopard spotted leotards,
When I came.

Large soft fleshy breast's that once despenced,
Gallon's of milk.
Attention from them was like swimming in a bucket,
Filled with stinging gellyfish.