when I see my neighbor Mrs. Flanagan
bend down without underwear to get her newspaper
I turn away in disgust .

I desperately try to forget the sight of Mrs. Flanigan
it is unlike anything I have seen
or wish to see again
but the memory follows me for months
like a hound with the scent of a hare.

the awful memory comes back without warning
often at the worse possible times
seared in my mind
by demons out to destroy me.

roses start looking like Mrs. Flanagans’s private parts.
their buds appear to be drooping in different directions
truck tires become giant vaginas chasing me
my life is becoming the vagina monologue.

one morning I wake up with a start
sweat dripping from my body
like a rancid piece of pork left out in the August sun
sure Mrs. Flanagan
is sleeping next to me
“ I saw you by accident,” I sob,
Please don’t make me look again !”

when spring comes, Mrs. Flanagan starts gardening
every day she tends to her garden
legs askew
flys circling her
like desperate Kamikaze pilots.
without the will to live anymore.

one morning Mrs. Flanagans’ husband Ralph
comes to my house in tears
Mrs. Flanagan had a stroke
her body is contorted,
legs spread wide open
like a multi-headed octopus.

by the time I get to Mr. Flanagan’s house
the Para Medics are struggling
to lift his wife’s 300 pound body into a stretcher.

I watch helplessly
as Mrs. Flanagan has a body spasm
which lifts her mu-mu dress
as I recoil in horror.

Mrs. Flanagan dies that night
I feel sorry for her husband Ralph
but I feel a sense of calm and deep relief
and hope Mrs. Flanagan has a closed casket.