My Glasses

by Hayley Young

My eyes still crusty under my glasses

My mouth sour from one sip of cold, day old coffee
Her large white breasts
Now too exposed
They look as young as my own
Preserved for years
I suppose a woman’s chest never sees the sun

My heavy glasses
Grown thicker and thicker
With each year of study
Slowly slipping
With each compression
Off my sweaty forehead
Then at last the final hooks
So desperately clinging to each ear
Lose their grip
My glasses fall
With horror I watch
As they bounce onto her pale left nipple
And land with a loud crack on the floor

The crowd now a fuzzy blur

Just a few more seconds
Until my tired arms can rest

A man in the crowd

Perhaps an anesthesiologist or maybe a pharmacist
I think I can see his kind smile
And I can just make out the rims of his own frames
He hands me my glasses
And I thank him