Poetry

IF & WHEN

And I sit there, 

my fist 

pressing my nose 

against my face, 

breath fogging up my glasses,

            the glasses that leave indents on the bridge of my nose 

            when I choose to see a little bit worse than the rest of the world. 

I wonder if the indents will be permanent. 

If when I’m old and frail, 

when my daughter’s put me in a home, 

and they put makeup on me 

I would never have chosen, 

            if maybe the indents are still there, 

            from the glasses I had when I was twenty. 

And I sit there, age 62,

mumbling to an optometrist 

whose name I wouldn’t have remembered anyways, 

silently begging for the light to go out.

I wonder if it will.

I wonder if they’ll give me glasses again,

and if they know that I remember,

but that I just can’t see.

-        if & when