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
wonít hold together. Glues, like nowhere else.
Fillers for making good. Odd lengths of wood.
Lists youíd 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;
whatís wear and tear to us? The busy till
nestles in paper bags, old labels, things
you canít put words to. Patching, making do;
a shop of second chances and amends.
Each time youíre glad they havenít shut for good.
D. A. Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would
be pleased to hear from you.