Paint Chipping

A day of tedious repetition and replicated interest Weigh down a young soul. I am tired, The warm sun my sweet lullaby. My heavy head rests on my arms, And I fall to sleep not before an imperfection Steals my eye: A minute area of chipped deck stain. Face so close to the wood, I could not help but to reach out and inflict More damage with my teenage fingernail than I Had anticipated. Apparently, paint chips quite nicely From wood stained by another. I could have stopped at one inch, Even two, but why? I've exposed the natural blond underneath The sun-muted brown. I would consider it unnatural to Leave tainted any segment. My father will be furious, I'm sure, but The compulsion overcomes me; I keep Picking. Urgency floods into my actions and I rest Only upon the discovery That I have ripped all protection away. The deck appears meek and unfinished.