Blurred Vision

Blurred Vision

The retarded kid across the street sees
me cleaning out the garage
and comes over to help.
I tell him to just watch because
I'm afraid he'll impede the progress
of discarding my memories.

So, for a couple fidgety minutes,
his fingers rake his straw hair,
and his tongue presses between
his crooked teeth in an anguished effort
to remain a spectator.

Reluctantly, I relent and, from the dust
in the rafters, hand down a picture
of my first wife,
the cobwebs on the glass creating
patterns of cracks across her face.

I tell him to toss it into the dumpster,
but he wipes the webs away
on his sleeve
and kisses the smudged glass,
then hugs the image to his narrow chest.

"Don't do that," I say, thinking
I've made a mistake,
letting a retard help, wondering how
I'll get rid of him.

But before I can descend my ladder,
he turns the picture toward me
and says,
"See how pretty she is if you
look through the dirt?"

And I stare down
from the dim light of my perch
seeing him for the first time.