The Why of Glasses

I missed my glasses.

Folly to mourn healing of the cranium,
the return of equilibrium in the timing of an eye’s focus,
no more headaches.  No need.

But I missed them over and over, magic blue glasses.
Instant focus not of the eyes but of the mind.
Perched on my head top announcing my greatest strength and weakness:
you read too much.
Sexy glasses for looking through and under and over.
Sat-on, slept-in, dropped, re-bent, lost and found.
Scholar’s badge along with the inky fingers, thesis knee
and the dent in the side of the first joint of the middle right finger.

I wanted them back, silent messengers.

They said, “I’m reading.”
They said, “Quiet.”
“This is serious,” they said, “Come back later.”

Posted in:

• awareness,
• poems,
• the ten thousand things