I guess we’ve all faced the dilemma of needing
our glasses to find our glasses - of course your
backup pair are obviously nowhere to be seen,
which, in a nutshell, means groping blindly, but
only if we’ve an idea where the search will pay
something akin to a dividend; in my case to be
precise it’s a top-left drawer in the bureau with
the specs’ collection going back forty years
More memories there than you’d want running
about lose, unless you’re into reveries and the
wake-up calls; but here I am, wearing the pair
with chainsaw scratches on the lens - thinking,
Heaven’s forbid, while I can see, I didn’t need
reminders about how close that one came …
© 13 October 2016, I. D. Carswell
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