My hostess, Joan, once charmed me with
Green eyes and auburn hair.
I look at her through veils of blur.
Her head’s no longer there.

We talk of this, we talk of that,
We prattle on and on.
She gives a nod, which I find odd,
Because her head is gone.

We sponge away the world’s warts;
Our vanity’s unmatched.
Meantime Joan’s neck, I swear by heck,
Still remains detached.

We rail against “it don’t” and how
Good grammar lost the war.
She smiles at me, but I can’t see
The smiles I saw before.

My hostess never lost her head,
Nor have I lost my own.
In fact, my marbles are intact
And ditto goes for Joan.

These aberrations trouble me;
I’m hammered down and nailed.
I kid you not, the curse I’ve got
Is called The Light that Failed.

That’s poet-talk for blindness, and
I’m mad enough to spit.
So, la-di-da, my macula
Degenerates. Oh, shit!

There’s not a cure in sight, I’m told,
And please excuse the pun.
Our senses -- five -- can take a dive,
And sight is only one.

My cane that’s white with toe of red
Puts blindness on parade.
My children sigh and tell me why
I need a hearing aid.
No lily gets a working sniff,
No cooking pot a drool.
At ninety now, sometimes, some how
I’m taken for a fool.

Did I forget the sense “to feel”?
It’s made of sterner stuff.
If I get kicked or even pricked,
I’ll bruise or bleed enough.

But here’s the straw that beats me up
And leaves me whipped and weary:
It’s some dumb sage just half my age
Addressing me as “Dearie.”

Endearments from a stranger simply
Cannot win the game.
But man alive, I’m well past five;
I even have a name.

It tells me who I am and helps
Preserve my self-esteem.
If you have sight, please get it right.
It’s Eliana Beam.