Would it surprise you to learn that like most writers, I have spent more than a little guilty time trying to imagine what you look like, what you know you should be doing while you are reading this poem.
And I do wish I couild see your face as you read it, knowing it is a conversation where you want to speak, to tell me that you like my work, that reading me is a complete and utter waste of time, but you cannot, so I will conclude that you do like my work or else you would not be reading this in the first place.
It is strange knowing that your vision is not what it was, not what you want it to be, not necessarily yours in the long run, one eye already semi-useless for reading and distance.
You adapt, get bigger monitors, a tablet to read the news, a magnifier when you need to hold newsprint in hand, a large screen television (okay, you wanted that regrdless of your vision).
You realize so many songs you once sung (badly) will no longer make sense, goodbye “I Can See for Miles,” and no more Johnny Nash, “I’m looking through you,” nope, and “If I still haven’t found what I’m looking for” U2 will just have to find it for me.
I have had two, although the first is long forgotten, so perhaps it no longer counts, it certainly didn’t to her, announcing its end like the conductor of a train running late on the mainline to sadness.
Perhaps I have not forgotten but all I see is myself standing alone, intoning words to which the crowd intently listens, much like the audience at a reading by a lesser known poet, feigned polite awareness.
I’ll just say I’ve had one for it is easier that way on all three parties.
Charing Cross Road booksellers woven amid theatres cramped sagging shelves an out of print Christine Evans, slim, collected works of those long forgotten never noticed a damp chill enfolds old leather as the door opens and shuts on a late February. Morning, my purchases sink in the plastic bag dancing as I walk to the tube at Leicester Square with my new gems destined to cause a sag in my bookcase.