Ode to Glasses

I was walking
down the corridor,
dragging my art supplies behind me
and suddenly
I heard a "ping"
and a clatter
and my left eye started watering
and I nearly put my foot
down on top
of a nearly invisible
lens

I nearly crushed it with my rubber sole
the nearly gone piece of plastic
the one that stands between
my left cornea and
the the twisty, non-aligned
light rays that come from the sun

And the sun lashed my eye
with a cat
of unstoppable light
I bent down to pick
the lens
and the screw

oh oh the screw
where are you?
mica glinted all over the pavement
little twinkling false florimels
I knew every pebble
I named every bit of dirt
but I never found my screw

the metal frame laughed at me.
Its ends meeting not at all
not at all will those ends hug
the lens
in a tight embrace

I shoved the bits in my pocket.
They rattled unceremoniously with my keys
I stood up and took in the scene
with my baby-new eyes
my naked face
the colors screamed
big splotches across my brain
Ice-pick sharp and
as unstoppable as
a locomotive

I couldn't flinch,
I couldn't back down.
Where would I go?

This evening,
coming home
after the gloaming (is that a man or a malebox?)
The freeway bloomed
like a garden
white daisies
and red gladiolus
pimpernels (the flowers dilated right along with my pupils)
yellow forget-me-nots
lining the road
where I knew
the shadows
were numinous
(and cloaked deep, car-swallowing ravines)
and I hoped
I could remember
what my exit looked like.