I'm waiting for help at the optical shop;
getting on up there and can’t see so well.
A boy now runs in with a skip and a hop
and his grandma, who tries but just cannot quite quell
his boundless panache and his youthful delight.
He cries out, “Look here! It’s all so beautiful!”
Hundreds of eyeglasses, sparkling bright,
he spies as he twirls and inspects every wall.
All the opticians within this decor
Fail to notice his rapt admiration.
Now so inured to the sights in their store,
they're no longer seeing their own decoration.
Sometimes the young can be better at seeing
than us with our glasses and wiser perspective.
Is that because they are better at being
amazed and surprised and a bit more receptive?
Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
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