In what was once
their unused front room,
the dusty face of the clock
hanging above his bone
dry fish tank can look,
at dusk or when it’s raining,
like it might be a map.
On the bed hospice brought,
dad sighs to leave
his breath,
on each cold lens
of the last pair of glasses
he will ever own.
It takes time
for him to clear,
with his shirttail,
fingerprints and skin
flakes from glass
shaped to bend light
to where his eyes
need it to be.
It takes time
to put them back on.
He asks if it’s raining.
He says his garden
really needs a good rain.
The old aunts sit with him and wait,
use mint tins as ashtrays,
and cry over old monochrome photos
passed around
one by one until
the box is empty.
Looking for the time,
the clock shows me a bent road
that can lead
to different places
depending on when
one departs.
Back then they bought
ruined things
at auction.
How could someone cloak
that cherry, that maple,
that solid oak under
avocado semi-gloss
or antiqued harvest gold?
On the first of a string
of warm early autumn days
when no rain was expected,
Dad broke the tables and chairs down.
Carefully drawing out pegs,
turning screws,
and tapping joints apart
when there wasn’t glue.
I kicked all the rotten
apples to the corner of the yard
so we could kneel
in the shade to spread
can after can of caustic
stripping gel onto
each ugly surface.
The curdled acid seeped
and urged the paint
to forget what it promised.
Wasps followed
the scent of soft,
broken fruit
and left us to our work.
Lee Potts is a poet with work in several journals including Rust + Moth, Whale Road Review, UCity Review, Parentheses Journal, Riggwelter, and Sugar House Review. He is poetry editor at Barren Magazine. His first chapbook, And Drought Will Follow, will be published in early 2021. He lives just outside of Philadelphia and you can find him on Twitter @LeePottsPoet or online at leepotts.net.