I Cannot Find My Glasticles Poem by C Richard Miles

I cannot find my glasticles;
I cannot find my specs.
I’ll have to find ’em fast because
I need to write some cheques.

The man who wants my money
Is drumming on the door
And it isn’t very funny
That I’m scrabbling on the floor.

Now, underneath the sofa
Are piles and piles of fluff
Not reached by hose of hoover
Since it’s not long enough.

I wish I’d tried to clean it
And now regret my sins
Of omission since, I mean, it
Might hide the missing bins.

I poke a trembling hand out
For fear I touch that spider
Which doesn’t really stand out
Because the dust all hides her.

The man begins to hammer
Much harder on the glass,
As I, devoid of glamour,
Crawl like an ant in grass.

If only I’d my specs on
I might have had more luck
But they’ve escaped detection
Under a library book.

I’ve found the ones for distance
But they won’t do at all,
For, at the bank’s insistence,
The print is far too small.

I might resort to squinting
Just to see if I could see
But now something is hinting
That the answer’s close to me.

And, as I move the papers,
I find, to my surprise,
That suddenly, be-japers,
They’re right before my eyes.

But now the doorbell’s tinkling
And I have to leave the room,
Yet soon my eyes are wrinkling
To peer through gathering gloom.

And as I scream and whimper,
For I’ve badly grazed my shins:
It would just all be simpler
If I found my long-distance bins.

Then, as he stands there waiting,
The bold insurance man,
Comes just the thing I’m hating,
I’m sure you’ll understand:

I now can’t find those glasses
With jam-jar bottoms thick
And thinking time just passes
As I hunt for them, too quick.

I’m sure I tried to put them
Where they could not get lost,
So to stop me going nuts, then
I’ll need to bear the cost:

To buy that swish attachment
To hang them from my neck
Without thinking deep if that meant
I’d have to write a cheque.

And, for that, I’ll need my glasticles,
Which leaves me broken hearted
Since by a route, quite mystical,
I’m back to where I started.