Write What You Know || John Cullen

At sixty, I pee
all day, and sometimes
at night. I say, “Sorry,”
to my wife, as I toss
covers and the cat
for the bathroom. If I’m lucky
and drank beer
before bed, I may go
even more. My dog objects
to the word “pee” in a poem.
Objection noted, I smile,
but it’s difficult not to
speak of tides
floating the journey’s boat.
My doctor’s fingerprint
identified the prostate blossoming
with age and pressuring
the bladder, a natural event
given my years. She ran the tests:
“Nothing to worry about.”
Easy for her. She’s not cramping
her style checking for restrooms
or imagining the slow flow
of a three-hour meeting.
At night, the waterfalls
in the ornamental pond
gives me nightmares.
I try to hold on
to positive thoughts, imagining
myself, like Ulysses,
turning hard to port
sighting home, after plotting
a course by constellations.
Others I know
are not so lucky,
but I think I should be
permitted a small complaint.
I chart a course
by the constellation Stick
Man on the bathroom door.