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