Old Man Johnson

Old Man Johnson is the worst, the children sing.
His pockmarked skin creases as
He yells at a butterfly that landed on his azalea bush.
Wiry grey hair sticking out in all directions,
He slams the door in the face of a nun.
His inflamed eyes dart around wildly,
Searching for his next victim.
“Mr. Johnson, could you spare some flour for a neighbor?”
He smiles a terrible smile
As he pours the last of his flour into the wastebin.
But, as the daylight wanes and the moon starts to show her face,
His smile drops.
He retreats to his favorite mantle in his favorite room
And stares at the woman in the picture.
A whisper of a tear falls from his eye;
He just misses his wife.