Until They Close

They sell the nails, screws, nameless clips and clamps
(DIY, Sundries boasts a peeling sign)
for one-off needs discovered when the house
won’t hold together.  Glues, like nowhere else.
Fillers for making good.  Odd lengths of wood.
Lists you’d never thought of on an average day.
Papers for rubbing down;  knot sealant;  soaps.
The brushes, varnish, stains for covering up.

Promises:  you can do it;  it will work;
what’s wear and tear to us?  The busy till
nestles in paper bags, old labels, things
you can’t put words to.  Patching, making do;
a shop of second chances and amends.
Each time you’re glad they haven’t shut for good.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem,  D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.