I struggle fiercely as I age
to read the words upon the page.
Now turn frustration up a notch,
I can’t see numbers on my watch.
In choosing glasses, I must ask:
just what is their intended task?
My readers cannot clearly spot
the food that’s cooking in the pot.
Computer lens to browse a book
needs stretchy arms to take a look.
The glasses that I need right now
are never close at hand somehow.
I’m on the couch; they’re by the bed.
I’ve lost them when they’re on my head.
I shake my fist at Father Time.
In my decline, I see a crime.
Though added time’s indeed a prize,
I mourn the dimming of my eyes.