Vision

I liked the Doctor until he pointed to the chart.

“Read,” he said like a drill sergeant-librarian.

“T…O…Z,” I said.

‘Easy enough,’ I thought.

“Next line.”

“L…P…E…D,” I said. “I’m 10; not two,” I muttered

So he wouldn’t hear

Two next lines later he interrupted:

“How do your eyes feel?”

“They don’t,” I said. “I feel with my fingers.”

He must have left his funny bone in the waiting room.

“Read Line 10, Mr. 10-year-old.”

“There is nothing after eight,” I said.

 

He never looked me in the eye.

Dad said a man should always do that.

But Dad went away. Maybe so did eye-looking.

 

The Doctor called Mom.

She never listened to “I need a new mitt,”

But this white-coat wizard says “Glasses”

And she opens her purse.

Now I can read Line 10

“T…B…C…A…P…D…T…N”

But I still can’t catch a pop fly.

 

And twice as bad—

My two guys will call me four eyes.

Tommy Thomson will make face circles with his thumbs and forefingers, and

Johnny Johnson will fake-bump into walls.

 

So I ran,

Pushed the screen door

And looked left for the ballfield.

 

But I tumbled the porch steps onto the walk.

Must have hit a mail box.

But I stood and saw her –

Pink bow … blonde hair

Pink cheeks … blue eyes

 

“Sorry,” I said to my shoes.

She smiled and skipped away to the right.

She made it three blocks when I started running

And she was still pink and blonde, and pink and blue.

 

And there would always be time for baseball.