Between my fingers is a tiny wet paint
brush loaded with Spirit Number Nine,
I have sloshed it on my nails and skin
like I am five playing with mommy’s makeup,
These new bifocals play games with
my eyes
These old fingers steady as she blows
no longer
I polish to hide the years of abuse
and dishwater to pretend youthfulness
and life at niece’s wedding tomorrow,
The news anchor drones about gold
and unemployment polishing our spirits
with a red lacquer while I wait for
Spirit Number Nine to dry.


WordSmith Studio Poetry Prompt
In the Moment


One thought on “Polishing

Speak to me of thoughts unspoken.

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