Father and Son They both know the difficulty of painting is prep work. And in July’s apathy they scrape patches of sky from a house’s body Pour piles of pale slivers from drop cloths, Sweep cloud chips from sidewalks, sand stubborn clumps Of paint, erase years the house had endured, the body of seasons It satisfied. Their fingers ache, Their shadows burn. They caulk and prime And sit in the grass to eat cold sandwiches. They smoke While the sun glares off their painter’s whites. And when evening comes deliberate and resigned Like a young man approaching his life, they undo The day’s equipment: fold drop cloths, clean brushes, Hide the paint in the shed. This is what a son can share With a father: the muscle’s simple elegy, The litany of coffee, aspirin, water, beer, the slow churning Of truck tires going home. Originally published in the Blue Collar Review |
