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Doug Potter
Poems
Oct 2016
Cabin on the loch
With fly rod in hand
grampa slowly walks up the hill.
I search my hair for ticks because
cousin Charlie said your **** stands
a chance of falling off if one
bites you in the fall of the year.
Gramma’s hands
shades her eyes as she squints
from the screened-in porch
toward grampa, he is on his knees,
gramma’s arms
fall and she runs;
this will probably be my last trip
to the loch with my grandparents.
Written by
Doug Potter
Iowa
(Iowa)
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