Making Do

Who can forget the ripple of disgust
that twisted the piano tuner's lip
on viewing the repair some former owner
(oh, no, not us) had made with a bootlace?
It did the job, holding the pedal up,
but who could fault his scandalized recoil?
By now we ought to be familiar with
that look of flouted, outraged expertise
surveying the offense of ignorant
contrivances, cheap shortcuts, slovenly
expedients only a manic devotee
of puttering could approve or even think of.
Just so, when we moved in, the electrician
stared at the spider web of circuitry
some tinkering precursor hooked on wiring
trellised the basement with. And the house painter
almost swallowed his cigarette when he saw
the alligatoring my hapless, hand-done
sanding had left sitting on the clapboards.