When you started to lose your lustre
and your finish faded and cracked,
he had you painted rust-brown, foxy.
But no amount of spit and polish
can mask the dark circles or freshen
your face--still younger than you look.

You've got it written all over you
in a heavy hand. He comes home,
puts his boots up, puddles of beer
leave a stain that won't come out.
You're mute as usual, wooden--
for blessed are the meek.

How much hard living can you take
before a leg gives out and you teeter,
crashing down with the butts and empties?
Oh, he still flatters with a feather
touch that seems to soothe your hurts--
each time, he promises, will be the last.