The Old Recluse Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Those frigid mornings by the creek
pull gently on my peasant's blouse.
A rainbow trout is what I seek
the favourite breakfast of my spouse.

A baby's dummy, full of booze
adorns my lips to ward off ills
a form of wanton self-abuse
the doctor says and gives me pills.

Things finally came to a head
she wouldn't cook the blasted trout.
And when she went alone to bed
I threw the little woman out.

For forty-seven happy years
I've lived here with my bootleg juice
until today. A few hot tears
rolled down the face of this recluse.