Sarah Henry

My brother’s eyes
are clear green,
the shade of a Perrier
bottle in candlelight.
He says, “Pierre water.”
It’s his own invention.
My brother is the poet
of the future.
My weak eyes
fade to hazel—
the color of muddy
water with algae
floating on the top.
“Trees and bushies and
shrubs” ring his yard.
That’s what he says.
It’s totally impossible
to fly a plane
or parallel park
without depth perception.
I’ll take a train and
park at the mall.
Complications of ophthalmology
are “out of tune-ish”
to the poet of the future.
Now he’s offering
drinks and “swillage,”
as in, “Swillage, anyone?
Cheese and crackers!”
I’ve got glasses and
he’s got a dictionary
he never uses.