Once bent over a drawing table my architect pal
works now on a ladder closer to the blue,
each stroke of his brush a lavish line,
no spot ignored nor breach uncaulked,
the rhythm of his arm a study in breezes
on board and shingle until he climbs down,
brush in hand, paint can by his side,
standing back to admire the sheen of the light
on the side of a house that never talks back,
proud of a new life that smells better than ink
and conversations he has all to himself
It’s better this way, he likes to say
The only thing he has to sell is his time
and the way good paint becomes the wood