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Is it just nesting,
or besting the neighbours
that commands these labours?
Lilliputian in scale,
In travail Herculean,
and lasting an eon.
The Stygian depths we have to plumb
behind the sink. The hammered thumb
turns salmon pink, and then goes numb.
And I’ve given my all
to that damn drywall.
So I’m off for a drink.
“Well that’s what you think,”
replies the Trouble-
and-Strife, “With the dust and the rubble
you’ve left in the hall! And trust me, the pub’ll
still be right there - no please don’t swear -
when you’ve swept up it all.”
So I must perform a painful manoeuvre
with a dampened cloth and a stain remover,
And have to assume that, as seems plain,
Mother Nature abhors a flattened plane
as she does a vacuum.
And as I hate a Hoover.
March 07 (for Robert Duquette)
