When You Can’t See

When you can’t see well,

Other senses do become sharper.

I differentiate dark and medium coffee beans by smell,

One just barely bolder than the other.

I can’t see a fly whizz by,

But I can hear it buzz by my head,

I can still kill it first try,

Can tell by the goop on my hand.

I can tell who is coming in based on their walk,

Can figure out people based on blurry frames,

Rough and doubled, less clear than chalk,

Yet, I can tell who it is and say their name.

I can click my teeth and navigate a lightless room,

Taste cooking or burning food on my tongue,

Can guide a needle better than a loom,

Or feel how straight a picture is after it’s hung.

Can still see the contrast of white spots on a black backdrop,

Can still taste something and know what to call it,

Or locate something once it’s dropped,

Eyes aren’t everything, not even a bit.