A Painted House

He still wear the paint on his nails
the little bits in cracks and curves
wanting to be up on the ladder
with work that the boards of him drink in
work that coats a hundred-year house with love
something more human coating the worn boards
quieting the soul of the owner with ample rest.

Scraping at the worn chips and crocodile skin of the old paint
and hearing the throaty ripping
followed by the ring of the blade as it tears away the puckered latex
and he lays on the new
the new coat
or is it a new life?

Yet every conversation leads back to that old office
that old place where you painted the boards that shored up younger souls
and when you were found guilty of treason
to a law not worth living, Thaddeus, you flew
and now build a new home.

I worked in that building. Gave little bits of me
that the wood still wears
and hope that somehow
the love placed there
still shines, ever so lightly
in the cracks and curves
of your new future