Bushwick: Latex Flat

D. Nurkse

Sadness of just-painted rooms.

We clean our tools

meticulously, as if currying horses:

the little nervous sash brush

to be combed and primped,

the fat old four-inchers

that lap up space

to be wrapped and groomed,

the ceiling rollers,

the little pencils

that cover nailheads

with oak gloss,

to be counted and packed:

camped on our dropsheets

we stare across gleaming floors

at the door and beyond it

the old city full of old rumors

of conspiracies, gunshots, market crashes:

with a little mallet

we tap our lids closed,

holding our breath, holding our lives

in suspension for a moment:

an extra drop will ruin everything.