Been seeing the world
through glass since I was ten.
When I was having trouble
reading the names chalked
on the blackboard in my
5th grade history class.
So I got a front row seat
until my ugly plastic specs
were finished and fitted.
I didn’t get to choose the style.
Not that it mattered much
as soon as I walked outside
and saw a sparrow flit
across the sky.
And every needle
on the cedars in the canyon
where we camped that weekend
was as defined as the stained glass
windows in a cathedral.
Without my glasses,
I’d never notice
the old chewing gum that
speckles the sidewalk.
Or the discarded
masks and latex gloves
In the gutter.
Or the red-shouldered hawk
that cries and perches
at the crown of the tree I see
from the bedroom window.
I’d lose my lover in a crowd.
The orchids in the garden
might elude my blurry gaze.
Through my wire-framed hippie glasses,
I saw Jimi Hendrix shred
The Star-Spangled Banner
on the Woodstock stage.
When I put on my glasses
In the morning now, I can see
Mt Diablo on the horizon
of the pinkend sunrising sky.
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