Conc

When i was a kid
and my hair was short,
sloping unevenly at the front
and sprouting like a lettuce
at the crown, my glasses and i
were inseparable.

Big and bulbous they lazily
rested on my little nose,
disproportionately,
and in the process left me
a little bug-eyed,
but my vision sharp.

They would accompany me
to quaint children’s
birthday parties
and more seriously
on outings to the park;
football shirt, shorts
and studded boots,
which clicked and clacked on the pavement,
were also mandatory.

Occasional 4-eyes references
occurred whilst at school,
they didn’t phase me,
i was more preoccupied with
evading the teachers
by talking under my breath
and when a more sly method
was called for, communicating with kicks
under the chewing-gummed tables.

Sometimes in fits of boisterous
boyish activities, arms would snap,
lenses would crack, but no matter.
Sellotape would right any wrong,
at least until
i would again meander
up the streets followed by mother’s
panic’d shouts,
to attend the opticians.

When i stopped being a kid,
i stopped wearing the
circular contraptions,
they were a burden.
With the realisation
that they should be cared for
i sat them in their case,
lined with soft cloth,
and never took them out again.

15/1/10 mw