The Perfect Poem

I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night.
Then up for work after two hour’s sleep
To repair a door for Carol her drug-addicted
Son kicked in.  She was very grateful
I don’t charge too much and have a knack
For finish work—it looks brand new.
Then to Samantha’s who keeps her townhouse
Hot enough to wear her thong bikini bathing suit
In January where no one can request
She leave the beach like last July.
She’s 75 and rather proud of her obesity.
It’s a broken toilet seat (easy fix).
But shimming and leveling the base takes more time.
Her checks never bounce.  That’s good.
But she keeps saying, “Cliff
Cliff, your clothes are soaking wet
Let me wash and dry them for you
While we soak in the hot tub.”
I say, “Thank you, but I’ll be fine
If you’ll just turn your thermostat down a tad.
That’s all.”  Next up one of Carlo’s rentals.
A tenant has moved and the entire place reeks of dog piss
And shit.  I’m really dragging now
From lack of sleep because
I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night
But rip out all the pissy carpets and
Padding and drag them to the street
Amid a cloud of brown dust.
The new-carpet guys waiting and impatient,
I rush the Clorox scrubbing room to room,
Get my 10 hours in and collapse back home
Smelling bleach in my nose while dozing off
And yet fulfilled:
I wrote the most perfect poem in the English language last night.

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