I once had a robust collection of reading glasses. But now I'm down to one pair. What happened to the others? I should secure my reading glasses on one of those dainty chains, have it dangling from my neck like an old woman playing Pinochle.
As my vision has deteriorated, so goes my memory. What happened to my brown, Howdie-Doodie glasses? Where did I hang my car keys? Why can't I remember the name of the person I just visited? And, what, pray-tell, is my son's name? I could have sworn I knew his social security number last year.
Still . . .
Or how about a poem? Here's one I wrote about reading glasses.
At first the distance was a dream:
My vision an aquarium
Of moving shapes and hazy forms,
Each paragraph's clandestine scheme
Withholding vowels from the sum
Of flat lines squiggling like worms
Across the page. But through the lenses
Words appear and miracles
Of sentences, each magnified.
I have, at last, come to my senses,
And "t"s appear instead of "l"s
Inside the ink where they reside.