Like Fresh Paint

After twenty years, they steamed off the floral wallpaper,
revealing a layer of June Day Yellow under Museum White.
They covered the couch where three toddlers once wrestled,
spilled sippy cups, napped and bounced. They painted the ceiling
Oyster White.  “Remember the ones we had in North Carolina?”
he said. “Oysters Bienville,” she answered, wiping up a paint droplet.

He wrapped bandages of painter’s tape on the windows and molding,
framing the room in Picasso blue. She daubed Vanilla White
on the trim with an angled brush while he spread Cobble Brown
on the walls. He rolled the paint up and down, across and down,
spelling letters M, W and T, until the next layer blurred them out.

No television, no radio, no conversation interrupted the masking
of nicks and scratches with two gallons of semi-gloss, low VOC,
low odor, anti-microbial paint.   “I think we should replace the couch,”
she said.  The late day sun beamed through curtain less windows, nail pops
and spackle visible in the glare. “Needs a second coat,” he answered.

© 2011 Kim King


About k2king

Poeming to save myself
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