It seems
neither
of my eyes
are magic.
See, I cannot decipher
those three-dimensional pictures
obscured by a muddle of
pattern and color.
I’ve stared long,
hard, half-lidded,
criss-crossed-
to reveal nothing but
headache-y backdrops.
But both his eyes
are magic
and can find
illustrations
in static.
See, he scans
these illusions
for quick
entertainment.
The other day
he bought
a pack
of magic playing cards-
on one side, the suits
garbed in a
plaided
disguise.
And my
unremarkable eyes
failed to distinguish
a single shade.
Hearts,
clubs,
queens,
spades?
I’d not a clue.
He, of course, knew
and had great fun
picking a card-
any card-
and finding the
camouflaged truth.
If we were to play
Blackjack or Rummy
with this pack,
I fear the game
would feel
far too familiar,
similar to the
endless games
of emotion played
by a wide and
feeling word.
Me, knowing
the rules and risks,
but at a
pitiful
disadvantage.
See, I’m incapable
of reading my
opponent’s hand.
Meanwhile, mine
splays dumb, and
blind, and
candid.
It seems
neither
of my eyes
are magic.
pm poetry 