At the Ophthalmologist

Old poem, inside anything–
Murdered kings in lightbulbs
(Robert Bly) standing room only
For the groundlings in mist
Or your private dead
In performance
Though the doctor
Can’t see it
Your mother setting fire
To furniture
The big house listing
Like the Titanic
And the turtle backed
Retina sparking
In Marconi’s hair
“Everything looks the same
As last year,” he says
Wiping his specs.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto