Old Man Dreams
Still a full year shy
of 60 and they’ve started.
I make disasters
I never would have
made awake.
I’m sure I’ll lose
my job. This damn map is just last
year’s calendar and father’s
watch is all I’ve given myself
for a compass. Words come
through walls. But I already knew
that. All the flooded streets
lead to the lake.
The magic bean I held
back from mother sticks
in my throat.
You browse about at your
own risk in these dreams.
It’s best to not stop, to not
try to see into the ocean
as if it was air, to keep
to the clearest path
watch hands will allow
because you’re always
running late.
The sea grew calm far out from land
I would have turned to salt
looking back at what
we had. So all driftwood was burned
before we could lash it into
a raft. Nails from boards once
part of a boat or a home broken
by storms we never saw, freed
by our burning, dropped
into the embers. Quiet things
that burrowed into wet,
dead wood dried up
and died. I had once planned
for a sail made like a god’s
shirt and music made with
the hollow bones of birds.
The wind brought enough smoke
to bless me and to stop
me from singing
of what I would not have sacrificed
in order to set sail.
Going Through
Lee Potts says, “In 2017, I returned to writing poetry after a 25-year hiatus. Before that, I earned an M.A. in creative writing from Temple University. I was an editor of Painted Bride Quarterly in the late 80’s and early 90s and am currently poetry editor at Barren Magazine. I live just outside of Philadelphia with my wife and our youngest kid still at home. My chapbook, And Drought Will Follow, was released by Frosted Fire Press in April 2021.”