Bodger

I never was a joiner;

I hacked my way ahead
in a mockery of carpentry
time running out,
my repairs merely running;

and I plugged the leaks,
made sure the drains ran clear,
varnished wood that needed varnish,
toshed paint across uneven walls,
laid carpets to rest over splintered boards,
pinned skirtings back with twisted nails.

Rank amateur, fly-by-night cowboy,
wood butcher, hapless journeyman,
my name and my fame, my cheapskate reputation
for getting the job done, cobbled together,
corners cut, materials stretched, substituted,
a sly tap on my enormous conk,
‘You ain’t seen nothing’.

I forged the badge of excellence,
tipped my hard hat
to the notion of service with a smirk;
and I got it done, no questions asked,
mine, the motto of a nation of bodgers,
wide boys and wide women,
wide of every mark,
no blemish too hard to gloss over,
no short-cut short enough to turn a profit.

Here’s how I got along,
and here’s how you can join the club:
pay your dues, a nod as good as a wink,
never mind about
double dealing, insider trading;
caveat emptor, you pays your money,
you takes your chance;

who pays the money,
shares the blame.

© BH, 2019

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Poetry24 - word of the weekend. I always liked the word ‘bodger’. You might say it’s what I do with words. ‘Wood’/‘word’, not much of a difference. And it’s the way of the world. Rough assemblages of things we think of as elegant but which are crude imitations of a far more subtle nature.