Chipped Paint

  I like the things that only come through years of constant wear. Like long hair,
   like shredded jeans, or a thin sweater. 

  Cuts in a butcher block, ripped leather boots, faded incandescent bulbs, and oiled axe handles. 

  

  I like fresh air.

  

  Some folks find beauty in modern art, but I find it in the engine of an old fishing boat, in the concave step of an old stone stairwell. 

  

  I find beauty in a tired type-writer ribbon: oiled felt, chipped edges.

  

  I find beauty in dull pocket knives. The tired office desk, a stained rake.

  

  I like the rocking chairs with discolored wrists, the torn cardboard edges of board games. I like scrapes in old wood floors; hard water stained shower curtains.

   

  I like the soot on a concrete hearth. The water and ink stained silk screen. 

  

  I see history in an empty mascara cylinder; toilet paper cores in a trash can. 

  

  Fan blades covered in dust. 

  

  I like the rain stained vinyl siding of a mid century house, I like the worn tires of a tractor. 

  

    I wonder how many years it takes to fill the ceiling of a small bar with dollar bills. I like the sweat stained steering wheels, I like the salty passenger side floor mats.

  

  I like the dew between two panes of glass- I like the over grown garden of your past.

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