Sorry for everything else that is wrong with this - sometimes inappropriateness is a default setting I can't turn off
His eyes felt parched and old, dreams long replaced by his regrets,
when she made him forget about his twitches and Tourettes.
The hottest bird he’d seen since Jinny copped one in the head;
that cricket match at Christmas when she fell down, bronzed and dead.
Now here she stood, so priceless, Masters aisle number eleven,
just browsing all the goof plugs and the stop-cocks, like in heaven.
Her hair was mouldy ginger; crust had formed around her lips
where pooled saliva dribbled onto pairs of multi-grips.
He twitched and said some words inconsequential as he neared her,
then getting her attention, with his walking stick he speared her.
His heart though thudded strongly as their fingers intermingled,
pathos far far away as his old tea bag stirred and tingled.
She wore a yellow skivvy, like that bloke out of the Wiggles,
and pee’d her pants (just slightly) when she suffered from the giggles.
He bought her flowers, rare ones from the heart of Venezuela,
then took her on a cruise ship to the north west of Australia.
They shared the wharf at Derby and the gulf behind King Sound,
and shared each other’s fluids where the Boab trees abound.
Their time was gay, abandoned, wild and music filled the air,
but soon he grew to dislike all her skanky ginger hair.
Dementia and tourettes came back to save him from this dread,
he yelled out “BISCUIT!” wearing just his undies on his head.
Now keeps his options open, spaces don’t fill up so fast,
but he’ll enjoy his next one, for it just might be his last.
Had to laugh at this - great way to get the scourge of aged incontinence into a poem. Well done.
I think I recognize this pair from trips to my local shopping centre - the skanky red hair was a dead giveaway 
)