my first glasses gave me planes
in the sky, the ability
to spot at ten yards
the stubble on my father's face,
the delineation of each tree
on hills no longer just a blue wash.
At first I was a novelty,
the freckled kid in glasses,
then, the teenager
with eyes behind lenses so thick
they looked like those of a crab's.
Later I was told I needed contacts
to be set free
to see in the rain.
Now age is a factor, my optician says
as he rolls away the robot face
and enters the latest data
in a book started forty years ago,
Half-filled now, worn
I look down, see my feet
tidily stashed on the chair's high step.
Like the easy child,
they've never given me any trouble,
unlike my eyes
by signs of erosion, and wanting
Kay McKenzie Cooke