Poetry - Self

Paint Shelf

It happens
on some gray day
when you are drifting drably along
sweeping up fingernails and flies
from beneath the skinny steel paint shelf
in the corner of the basement

It happens
right after you have pulled them
from the broom’s bristles
by their cracked wings
and shook them
into the dustpan

It happens
as you thumb through
moments
take stock
of your daily bores
when someone grazes by
and paints a warm red gust
a brushstroke of breath
deep into your lungs

It has happened
and you fumble
through moments
dizzy and pie-eyed
your thoughts
are snapshots
spinning on an 8mm reel
in blurry circles
that send you
ruby heavy
into the skinny steel paint shelf
in the corner of the basement
and all the colors
spill onto you