We were never really suited, were we?
A relationship that was bound to fail.
I lacked the willpower.
‘Persevere, persevere,’ was the opticians’ mantra
Over the years, five in all.
(Four wearing glasses I seem to recall.)
Putting you in was always a problem.
Being short-sighted I could seldom hit the target
and you would slide over the cornea,
and disappear from the screen like a lost email,
unread and irretrievable.
Getting you out was even worse.
Last thing at night, I would jab an eyeball
impatiently like a doorbell, sending you into orbit
around the cosmos, before landing, I imagined,
on the dark side of the brain.
Or perhaps sliding down a nasal passage
into the trachea to end up lodged in a lung.
Remember the time I found you on the floor
of the bathroom, and thought I’d coughed you up?
The pity is we didn’t meet sooner.
Who knows what heights I might have achieved
on the tennis court or the rugby field?
But by the time you appeared on the scene
the scene was an accustomed blur.
Eventually my aim improved and lenses
softened, but by then I’d given up on you.
Now my sporting days are over
and girls make fun not passes,
and though tempted by the occasional fling,
I face the fact, I’m stuck with glasses.