Aging left is my enemy—
weak, weary, morphing
text into that abyss.
I can read with my right
through a right glass, but
the faraway seems far away
as to be light haze in the lens.
Doc never misses a chance
to point out I’m getting older.
Happens to everyone, he says.
Better than the alternative.
I didn’t come for an existential
theory of my eyes,
just new spectacles
in the style I’ve had for years, &
maybe a coupon
for a few bucks off
at the LensCrafters next door.
Looks like you’re nearing
one of those magic numbers,
he says, followed by something
about changing my prism,
which I take as mysticism
though he speaks in technical terms.
After he corrects the science
of reframing eyes with sight,
he asks me to read aloud
the smallest paragraph
on a card he holds
in front of the machine.
Who wrote this quote?
I ask. He doesn’t know.
Sad that he’s never looked it up.
