Prized Possession
Yogi was short and fat
and prone to tears
when things
didn’t go his way.
At eleven
he was the first
of our gang
to get glasses.
We were friends
and not one of us
called him
four eyes.
Instead, we took
turns trying his spectacles
on— smudging the lenses
past visibility.
His parents were poor,
the glasses a stretch,
and they reminded him
constantly to be careful.
I was there when
Eddie passed him
the basketball
and Yogi turned
to catch it
with his face.
He broke his nose
and had two shiners,
but the glasses
hit the grass
and came
through intact.
I saw them today
in a display case outside his office
when I went
to pick up my new specs.
Nice 1, poet.
ReplyDeleteI love this poem
ReplyDeletePoetry touches everyone, and Deutsch's poetry is proof.
ReplyDeleteGreat memories of a simpler time. Z
ReplyDelete