the painter next door
The roof next door is being painted
tooff tooff tooff
the painter
a woman, in her middle years
sprays the metal ridges with long even strokes
and thinks about her husband
lying in his hospital bed
mans’ miraculous machines
breathing for him
tooff tooff tooff
she wants to succeed, but mainly for him
each stroke willing him on.
A clear plastic hose snakes down the wall
from the airless spray gun
to the bucket on the ground below
It sucks up the paint
an artery of soft pliable red
and delivers it to the roof
with loving strokes.
The roof is metamorphosing
from a dull faded Granny Smith green
to a shiny Pacific Rose red
the painter climbs down
her face and hands spattered
with tiny blood-like specks
I must look just like Les
after the accident she thinks
wiping her face on a cloth.
She picks up her cellphone
resting on the step
and rings the familiar number
“Any change today?” she asks.
a visit from my grandfather
Pain has claimed my grandfather’s face
he comes inside slowly, taking great care
performing an intricate pattern of steps
two forward / one back / step to the side / grab the wall.
My grandfather’s partner is four pronged and slim
gone is the finely carved Kaumatua’s stick
replaced by this - functional hospital version
dressed for concealment in basic black.
Eyes grimly focused straight ahead he makes his way
to his favourite chair by the wall in the lounge.
And there he sits, his mana restored
the head of our family
surveying the world
from his cast iron railway throne.
