image of my dad's vintage eyeglasses
Poem entered into Mark Toney's Poetry Marathon contest, October 22, 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ They sit folded on the windowsill, a geometry of silver bones holding lenses thick as bottle-bottoms. Morning light catches dust particles dancing in their patient curve. He wore them low on his nose, peering over the frames while reading fishin’ magazines. The bridge bears twin grooves, softened leather pads worn thin by decades of Sunday morning news and crossword puzzles. Now they frame only stillness – ghost lenses reflecting the garden, empty orbits where his eyes once measured the world’s sharp edges. Cold metal remembers the warmth of his temples.
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