Old Dirt

Old.
Old.
It's all so old.
Ingrained
Like the grime in cracks
On a wooden table.
At times I wish for a jet wash
To blast it clean.
Perhaps I should get a
New table.
But I like this one;
I'm attached to it.
It is a long, slow
Labour of love,
Restoration.
Meanwhile, I must use it
Less and less
To slow the cycle
Of self-perpetuating
Old dirt.