Ode to Varnish

brightwork

The smell is the thing
That catches your ‘eye’
It lives up your nose
Refusing to die
It’s tacky and gooey
And sticks in strange places
Even occasionally
On unknowing faces

If the wind’s from the south
Or the clouds start to cry
Persnickety varnish
Refuses to dry
Too hot or too cold
It matters so much
 My just-painted varnish
Stays tacky to touch

But the thing about varnish
That most comes to mind
When I think of the hours
And hours of time
Is the odd satisfaction
From that off-hand remark
That passers-by sometimes make
When we’re about to embark

“Ooooh, who does your brightwork?”
…I smile knowingly…

me working looking up1

(my thanks to my sister for suggesting varnish deserved at poem…and my apologies to those of you who follow both my blogs, since this entry will be appearing in both places)

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