2 responses

  1. I wrote this one this afternoon. As a fellow “carpenter poet,” you probably know the feeling.

    The Perfect Poem

    I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night.
    Then up for work after two hour’s sleep
    To repair a door for Carol her drug-addicted
    Son kicked in. She was very grateful
    I don’t charge too much and have a knack
    For finish work—it looks brand new.
    Then to Samantha’s who keeps her townhouse
    Hot enough to wear her thong bikini bathing suit
    In January where no one can request
    She leave the beach like last July.
    She’s 75 and rather proud of her obesity.
    It’s a broken toilet seat (easy fix).
    But shimming and leveling the base takes more time.
    Her checks never bounce. That’s good.
    But she keeps saying, Cliff
    Cliff, your clothes are soaking wet
    Let me wash and dry them for you
    While we soak in the hot tub.
    I say “Thank you, but I’ll be fine
    If you’ll just turn your thermostat down a tad.
    That’s all.” Next up one of Carlo’s rentals.
    A tenant has moved and the entire place reeks of dog piss
    And shit. I’m really dragging now
    From lack of sleep because
    I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night
    But rip out all the pissy carpets and
    Padding and drag them to the street
    Amid a cloud of brown dust.
    The new carpet guys waiting and impatient,
    I rush the Clorox scrubbing room to room,
    Get my 10 hours in and collapse back home
    Smelling Clorox in my nose while dosing off
    And yet fulfilled:
    I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night.

    Like

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