Stir The Stain

Once I dropped, from atop of a 4’ step ladder, an open gallon of dark brown stain in the living room of a beautiful, white carpeted, A-frame house. It was the only time I heard Stan curse. “Fuck the door!”.


Stir The Stain (fuck the door)

High on a hill with the dark water crashing on stones down below
A Frame, made of glass with a view of the water
Dear sunset behold

The work was fine. A glowing on the inside
Almost there! I feel I’ve done my time
The never-ending standard help up, oh so very high for me

Stan: “gather things, sweep the floor”
Brushes cleaned, rolled the cords

O what a beautiful place as we worked face to face
Side by side
Long are the days when it’s Stan who’s steering the ride

Oh so good, the symmetry of Oaken wood
Near the end. I feel I’ve done my time
This never-ending standard held up, oh so very high for me

Heart of stone I eat the pain
Stan: “grab your brush. Stir the stain.”

Time had stopped as I watched the can drop

Cast it’s shade. Tragic bloom
Unholy brown stain the room
Frantically we faced the horror
Stanley said “fuck the door!”