Saturday, 12 May 2012

The Painter


A Saturday morning high street. Sun rapid as bird flight. Slates set in the
pavement. Music here. A score. The street is a gentle curve like the walls of a
loaf of bread. Rise, fall. Richness in fermentation. To hold your Grandmother’s
hand. To be with your Grandfather in his brown suit. Familiarity like silver kissing
on the green baize of a billiard table. A game, then.

White overalls. The painter on his ladder until something goes wrong. Miscues
his step and falls to the piano key sidewalk. That’s an Americanism. Pavement.
Out cold. Carried in to the music room. Mossy rugs. Lightness and glass. Black
piano. Long sofa. The bib of his overalls streaked in paint. Laid out on the sofa.
Dead man. Until tea is brought and he rises from his grave sofa. 

2 comments:

  1. ahhhhh, i love this one man!

    ~robert

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks again Robert. Another peculiar memory from a long time ago.

    ReplyDelete

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