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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The Optometrist (for my father)

As my eyes begin to fade
and the paper turns to mush
I've grown quite fond of 'puters
and the way they make me rush.

I push one button here
and all the letters jump
large letters make the read so easy
and the page no more a clump.

Perhaps it's not a screen I need
nor buttons easy tapped
but glasses clearing up the world
with blurriness quite zapped.

There's not a moment I don't think
upon my father dear
an optometrist who helped the blurred
and held good vision near.

I should see him with my fuzzy need
and knock upon his door
alas, he's gone on fishes' trails
to permanently snore.

(MP3 of Barry G. Wick reading this poem)


Copyright (c) 2010 by Barry G.Wick

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