When they told me to cover one eye, I did.

The world went left-black then right-black.


I waded through their forest lenses

choosing between consecutive numbers,

my mind encumbered with the haze

of distorted perception and the fog

of urban pop music,

so soothing after the honky-tonk

drawl of country music blasted

en masse over gas station speakers

in Utah.

They told me I could see perfectly.


I was covered and cured.


I should have known something was up.

Everyone knows you actually see fifty-fifty

with balanced eyes.


They assured me the insurance covered it.

So I went ahead

and got blindsided

by the ophthalmologist.





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