On The Deck Poem by robert fort

Sitting on the deck,
by the dock
of the tumbledown shack,
I live in the moment
breathe river air
catch the flight of
birds in the corner
where my eye
misses the page.
I dream.
I’m allowed to dream.
It’s a hold-over pleasure
from youth and fatherhood.
Dreaming in daytime
eyes open or shut
the images are realer
than the two-reeler
of last night’s sleep.
I dream in bird song
and plane noise
in wind across my ear
like a fleshy conch.
I dream of all the things
most people push away
with shopping lists
and dutiful chores.
I dream of nothing
in a nothing sort of way
and come away with nothing
but the day.