He’s a bold man that first ate an oyster- Jonathan Swift
“Fresh paint, “ he snapped, “is what we need,” the walls
an oyster white. No cultured pearls inside
the varnished shell they shared, the ruffled trim
a drizzled gray. His irritation vexed
her, rubbed like grains of sand. She mouthed, “No way
we’re painting now.” The words unclenched her teeth.
She sighed and turned. The rays from slanted blinds
diffused oblique despair. The saline taste
she sought was there, beyond the open door.
She packed and swam away. He painted walls.