Once More into the Breach

(in memory of leaks and competence)

Months of preparation

weeks of detailed costing,

another week or two of work,

to fix a cleansing issue

we started to put our lives

and chattels back into

cupboards, onto shelves,

to welcome back normality.

We looked at the product

of our plans and saw

that it was good,

but for a lengthening list

of minor snags, it did appear ok.

On the surface.

We waited patiently

for all their dust, which spread

throughout the Universe,

to settle out, so to clean

for one last time.

We enjoyed that special feeling,

you know, the one you get

for things when they are new,

like a child at Christmas,

that makes you feel 

that it was all worth waiting for.

Through all their soot and grime,
we tolerate

their tendency to make it worse

when they cleaned up 

after they had done.

Their habit of making

you feel like it wasn’t your home!

Then a sight that took us back

to where it all began,

dampening our ardour,

crushing our spirit.

Enraged, we watched

a patch upon the ceiling,

where it started, and where

we saw a rather 

expensive alternative 

to what we had before,

grow larger and larger

and larger.

So they came back 

to deconstruct

to reconstruct

to seal it properly

this time.

Near three hours it took them

to bring back hope

to our oh so forlorn hearts.

And so we let another day,

or two, pass into chaos.

And on the third day…

we stepped in, spirit renewed,

to wash away the anger

to cleanse our spirit

once more.

Once more…

Once more and they are dead,

I’d said, with feeling

like I really meant it.

Once more into this breach

and all that will be left of them

are entrails and body parts.

We’d wash them down 

through the drain

and out into the earth

to feed the worms.

Once more, this morning 

I was clean and happy,

for a few short moments,

as I stepped out

with towel around,

my hopes for future life…

...dashed in an instant.

The sight of it, 

a trickle, a little stream,

dribble, ooze, seeping as it was

through micron gaps,

a percolating spill,
pouring, gushing

rivulet that found its way

down below, to flee its source,

to prove them singularly

incapable

incompetent

unable to seal

the breach in the damn.

If I were a psychopath,

I’d cut their fingers off,

stick one in the faulty dyke

and float one in the puddle 

I found a while ago

upon the kitchen floor.

© 2012 John Anstie

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