Tarnished Promise

I pulled it out, this heavy base,

from Grandma's box, a dusty space.

Said, "Polish it, it's antique, rare."

I bought the paste, took special care.

The rag turned green, a sickly smear.

My elbow ached, the finish clear

showed through the grime, a hopeful gleam.

But then it stopped, or so it seemed.

Just flakes came off, a golden skin,

revealing gray, dull metal within.

Not solid brass, no heavy worth,

just cheap veneer, returned to earth.

My fingers sticky, smelling sour,

like all that's good for half an hour.

And then goes back to what it was,

just ugliness, because, because.