The optician’s sign reads:
Worried about your sight?
Reading faces like braille with a skinless touch
I want to ask,
“What about the ones who see too much?”

Don’t misunderstand me, I would not exchange my spectacles for yours
It’s just that there are times when I find myself
On fire for no other factor than I mistook a box of matches
For a nuclear reactor.

There are times I’d take an adjustment of this lens
To correct this near-and-farsightedness
Just there in between the
Soft spongy blossoms and dagger-hard edges

Went to the psychologist, she said, “You remind me of a friend back when
I was broken but now I charge by the hour,”
I wanted to give her a story but mistook the middle for the start
I always seem to begin where the trust fell apart.

At the end of the session while she scribbled her notes
On a scarf that knitted itself to her throat
She said I had a condition called ‘racing mind’
She showed me the door and something pharmaceutically inclined.
I wasn’t convinced, so I went on my way
Wobbly glasses slipping down my nose as
I tried to read my new diagnoses.

Somewhere in there
Between cellar and stair
I decided to sit
And it all came apart
A long skein of wool
With the end and the start
Together for one
Solid moment of fun.

On that step.