The cupboard

The Cupboard.

"The cupboard could do with a lick".
You said.
We dug out the paintbrushes from
The cellar,
If only things were so simple.

The newspapers were laid down and
We bought sandpaper from the DIY
Shop. The man who served us
Had breath that would have done the job.

The handles were removed and I
Was trying jackets on for size, the
Heat was unbearable and you were at
The library, as usual.

First the cream then the orange
You reminded me
Which I wouldn't have minded
But considering I'd served an
Apprenticeship as a painter?
I thought I had it all
Under control.

"Don't be too perfectionist". You said
After the first week?
"It is summer, after all".
But what did I know
The seasons had become just a white
Light.

After a while the newspapers
Started to turn yellow
"I'll finish it". You said. I just
Ignored you, which I did a lot
Then, I guess.

Like most things
The good intention was there,
But it faded?
And dragged, became a task that
Just wasn't enjoyable anymore.

The rows it caused, just over
A half-painted poxy cupboard
That we had to step over every morning
To get into the kitchen.

You moved out
Went to stay at Ingrid's

"I'm not coming back 'till it's finished".
You said.

The newspapers are dust now
The headlines have crumbled
And it's still there
On the floor
In the middle of the room.
You told me I could keep it
When you came to collect the rest
Of your stuff.

People tell me I could win you
Back if I'd just paint the
Fucking thing, but I
Just can't do it?

I like it this way.

It's like modern art?
I call it 'finished unfinished'.