My shed is equipped with tools and power,

My secret, personal hickory tower.

I’m there more than unconscious in bed,

Creating with my hands is my mental bread.

Converting branches into spatulas and spoons,

Stumps into chairs with inlays of moons.

I listen to the wood, it tells me what to do,

Or at least gives me an opaque, grainy clue.

Sometimes simple, like a spatula from birch,

Or a bit harder, an oaken observatory perch.

This last project, though, it got me confused,

When racking my brain, I think it got bruised.

A car you can drive? Excuse me P. O. Wood?

Shouldn’t it be metal? I think it should.

But it couldn’t hurt, and I like the work,

Now I have a car but I’m going berserk.

I have to decide on how to name the bloody thing.

Woodillac? R.M.S. Teak-tanic. The Oax-wing?


Painting a shed

Based on a true story.

I was painting a shed and the red paint trickled.
The shed started laughing as it felt it tickled.

The neighbor heard the shed’s loud cracking up.
It sounded like a chainsaw in a steel cup.

I tried not to trickle but the paint was runny.
The shed kept laughing like its breathing was funny.

I quit for the day as it was no use.

I went to bed after cranberry juice.

When I awoke to the day so sunny.

My neighbor laughed his laugh quite funny.

I went to see what made him cackle

Quite similarly to a laughing gassed jackal.

I walked out and didn’t see the shed.

It had escaped while I lay in bed.

It couldn’t handle the ticklish torture
Any more than I can an unusual scorcher.

Now I have no shed, I’ll have to build another.
I’ll need some help, i’ll have to call my brother.

He knows how to build a house you can’t tickle.
Apparently the key is to make it out of pickle.