The Color of the Roost
For him spackle is more than bandages over old wounds.
He steps back after each wall to take a moment at the
window, clear the mind thought emptied by work.
So begins a relationship between the streets & the small
room. He wants a ceiling like fresh tarmac; who wouldn’t?
Awake nights he could drive an idea front to back,
cross the yellow line carved with painter’s tape, move his
automatic shape-maker like the street’s wound-up pigeons.
Drive until the transmission dropped from under his feathers.