The Cracked Lens, Or, Mr. Harrison's Frame

The dust motes in the antique shop window

danced, slow and golden,

around a pair of spectacles.

Wire-rimmed. Thin. One lens

with a spiderweb crack,

so fine you almost missed it.

Mr. Harrison. Eleventh grade.

History. He’d push them up

his nose, those exact frames,

and say, 'Consider this,'

then pause, and squint,

like the world was a puzzle

only he could almost see.

He never yelled. Never raised

his voice. Just that quiet

'Consider this.'

Made me feel like a fool,

for not considering it already.

Made me want to break

what I thought I knew.

He never knew he did it, I think.

Just a quiet man,

with a small, silver scar

above his eyebrow.

And those crooked glasses,

still holding the ghost

of a nose bridge, in a dusty shop,

making my own chest feel

hollow, and sharp.