THE PAINTED
HOUSE
I've made no difference. No matter
the distinction between winsome
and whiny, between wisdom and
hoarse. What really matters now
is intention. That, and nothing more.
-
My skin crawls, as I paint the room
yellow. A yellow like a jaundice out
to cavort with a new-found queen bee.
-
The queer men by the corner house,
they've already had a yellow-painted
dormer for three years. The rest of
that same house, unfortunately, is a
combination of purple, blue and orange.
-
I know, you probably don't believe me.
But, it's true. And I can show it to you.
-
Painted quite specifically, like a
paint-by-numbers dream. Dreading
anything more than that, I look
away.
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