Bloodshot

I have not earned these bloodshot eyes.
In fact, truth be known, I am far too boring
to deserve them.

You can measure my daily intake of bourbon and wine
in thimbles. I love the stuff mind you, but my nights are
more full of cokes and hot tea than firewater and moonshine.

I retire early, often meaning to read
into the wee hours of the night,
and nearly always failing.

I didn’t even party well in college and today, I am worse.
I don’t smoke. Not anything.
Dull. Dull. Dull.

I live in the country. No pollution here
save the occasional distant wood stove
wafting in the night.

Perhaps, for a few weeks in the spring,
and a few in the fall, there is enough of mother nature’s dust
to do the job, but mostly,

well, it makes no sense, God’s joke.
Or Satan’s mean trick, all these veins,
vibrant and red, like a madman, a temptation
that, since I look the part, I should live it.

But I am comfortable in my quiet,
with my bloodshot eyes that frighten children and priests.
They are part of my face, hardly seen
when I look in the mirror. merely part of the litany of flaws
that make me, me.

About this poem. 

Another of the poems written around pictures I shared in a photography challenge around black and white photographs we have taken. I decided to have a little fun with this one.

Yes, that’s my eye. And yes, it’s generally that bloodshot. Thank goodness for Visine.

Tom