Neutralized

He's the fellow from up the street.
Up, up the street. The street on which
live mostly retirees, though they've
known their neighbours for decades
while all were gainfully employed.
Age has mellowed some, emphasized
social awkwardness in others, incited
even others to crankiness. All now
have the leisure time to potter about
with this and that, and some prefer to
remain idle considering that idyllic
after a long working life. That fellow
the one you take care to compliment
on his pitiful little garden that he so
dotes upon imagines himself an arbiter
of good taste, a person whose interest
lingers on self. When he stopped
briefly to appraise the garden you
were working in to comment that if
the Icelandic poppy on the verge of
bloom were in his garden he'd haul it
out only verifies he cannot tell a weed
from a cultivated plant so don't take it
to heart. Only gardeners are aware that
such clueless statements strike the
heart much like a mother reacting 
when someone observes what a pity
it is that her child is cross-eyed.