Another bleary anticipation

of sunrise and garbage

trucks rumbling past the trash

bins I forgot to fill

with the bags still sitting

beyond the back door.


Hindsight, as they say,

but I haven’t seen 20/20 in years,

and the first time I wore glasses

was the first time I saw the leaves on the trees.

For some reason, that made me cry, and my mother, too.


Bears don’t make passes

at cubs who wear glasses,

so for years I just squinted.


Imagination, like beer goggles,

can do wonders at a club,

in the haze,

but damned if it can’t horrify us

when things become clearer.




Filed under Poetry

2 responses to “Myopia

  1. Jody, this one is a keeper, for certain. I really like the opening stanza.

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