The Handy Man

Stanley was overweight, unmotivated, downright lazy,
his wife thinking she married a man, no sloth, was almost crazy.
Dishes unwashed, the grass uncut,
laundry unfolded, refused to walk the mutt
the gutters overflowing with leaves and accumulated debris
Stanley, warm and cozy, inside sipping Jasmine tea.
Stanley was lazy, thought little of marriage, less of his spouse
nothing of domestic upkeep and did zilch to clean the house.
Pick any chore, he was remiss
For him, this life, pure bliss.
Sally, his wife, anger at a boil,
Stanley’s leisure life she planned to foil
A last resort, dialed the Home repair hotline
Any intervention needed, devilish or divine.
The Handy Man arrived early, lived up to his name
Eight arms at the ready, Stanley’s life never the same.
A hurricane of productivity, a tsunami of motion,
Hard work was his muse, labor his devotion.
Stanley rubbed his eyes in disbelief
The way that man moved, good grief.
The proof was in the pudding and the power tools
He treated his drill and screwdriver like rare jewels.
A picture of pure paradise was the front yard
The interior could have fronted a greeting card
The Handy Man, almost finished, one final task
Garbage removal, a joy he could not mask.
Octopus arms hugged, tentacles tugged
Eyes bugged, Stanley shrugged
and succumbed, his dying gasp
too late his wife’s warnings did he grasp.
Sally arrived, dreams she dare’d
the house empty, the home now repaired


Editor’s Corner

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