When I took off my rose-colored glasses, I was terrified.
I discovered my nose and midsection 
were much larger than I’d ever imagined.
My heroic husband was bald, and old, 
and had married me for my cooking.
My grand residence on a hilltop in the glorious sunshine state
was a run-down Victorian at the edge of a fault 
on the wrong side of the Bay.
Both of my beloved canines had bad breath and fleas
and my relatives were all mal-intentioned.
A good look at the national front revealed
that the elected leader 
who would be king 
was actually no more than a puppet,
that the providers of life’s necessities—food, shelter,
fuel—were not into giving, but taking, 
that the champions on the opposing sides were twins
and that a ticket to Mars to get away from it all
was out of the question unless you happened to 
win when you threw your lifesavings into the big lotto furnace.
But now, over time, I’ve grown used to these things.
They no longer frighten me.
Sometimes I think of Tireseas,
the blind Greek soothsayer who saw things as 
they really are.
Sometimes I think that removing the glasses was not enough.
Sometimes I look to my eyes.