The poet wearing his first pair of glasses

or Before my First Pair of Glasses

Trees were blobs of green
as I counted the days
to summer vacation.

Chalk on the blackboard
smudged meaningless
until called to the front
to diagram a sentence.

My teacher’s face — a blur
when she sat at her desk.
I would roll my eyes
from the back row
at her scolds and sermons.

If I couldn’t see her face,
how could she see mine?

(This was written in early April at a Living Poetry Germination Workshop to the prompt: Spring — Seventh Grade.)