Thinking Of Robert Frost, My Optometrist, And Temporary Blindness

When I did I said
(to myself of course) I will
go home and write a
poem about him and
if he never sees…
ah! How intricately amusing
all the facets of blowing
green and indiscernible
gold against the backdrop
Of my Blindness.

"Can I close my eyes?"
"Of course"

I only twist my hair while
Waiting when sick I bite
My nails he was not
Robert Frost nor was I Emily
Dickinson(thank God!) but in
The Pastoral sense that
Vision comes into play he
Dilated my
Lack of perception to
Perception (lacking) and he
Built his office by a
Parking Lot complete with
Ruffling-hazy Maple trees.
I was a bit certain
Of in the Waiting Room reading
Frank O'Hara (predictably
So!) he called
Me over and I grew
Tired of whispering he was
Close enough to touch
I did not.
I am appropriate in
Some Aspects…my eyes have
Always been my best
Feature, vaguely hazel or green or brown
Or all Three like the trees outside
Or not.

"All done, Marlene!"
"Thank you"

He
Connotes and I leave
Looking back at the
Blurring of
Him