by Eric McHenry
It’s such a grownup thing to do,
Like renting tap shoes to perform
for no one in an electrical storm.
What’s wrong with you?
Remove your spectacles and cry,
already. If there’s rain
on your side of the windowpane
you’re probably the sky.
What’s the intention of a tear
if not to lubricate and cleanse?
I’ll tell you: a corrective lens
is making things too clear.
In college I could see the future
coming and would often
pop out my contacts first, to soften
its least attractive feature.
If you’ll just give it half an hour,
grief will discover
you drawing steam-roses in the shower,
and join you, like a lover.