July 1, 2006 at 1:33 am | Posted in writing | 1 Comment

The Swarfega smell spreads as you stand silent at the sink
scrubbing away your legacy.
I am small and fragile, nervously awaiting your approval
as you sit at the table’s end;
the comfort is in knowing exactly what you’ll say.
The smell of sawdust and engine oil stowed between
the patterns on your jumper are safety and love,
your hands my inspiration.
Though I’ll never tell you this, you know it anyway;
I feel it in your embrace each time I come home.


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  1. I wrote this for him, but I’ve never shown it to him.

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