A portrait of a paintcan

Ricocheting from

House to

House

Is the

Adamant sound

Of

Hammer

&

Nail.

Coupled with the shriveling sound

Of screws,

Carving out a living

Creating pyramids of sawdust.

And somewhere specific,

Off in the distance,

Sits a can of paint.

(Its color of no importance)

The top has been left open,

For both heaven and earth to see.

The paint can shudders at the

Monotonous nature of the

Neutral shutters.

The lazy garage door yawns,

And slowly closes it’s mouth again,

…Only letting in a couple leaves this time.

The can sits below

A birds nest,

Sharing at least two

Similarities with the unborn inhabitants.

Including but not limited to

Robin’s egg blue

&

A splash of egg shell-white.

The exposed contents can be stirred up by a passing breeze,

Swallowing impurities and debris

Alike.

A careless lawn-mower may streak by,

Or a lightning strike,

Or an earthquake,

All of which are powered by velocity,

&

Gasoline

And usually occur at random,

Causing the

Idle can,

To tip.

Inadvertently creating

An avalanche of acetone.

 Capable of dissolving mirages and

Archetypes,

Alike.

And most certainly the abandoned anthills.

While the top of the can

Is left

Off to the left,

Out of harms way,

At the base of

A  nearby mailbox,

(That needs more than a coat of paint to overcome its oblique nature)

To dry

&

Crack

In the heat of the sun.

Looking much more now,

Like a misplaced  dinner plate,

Than the sun itself,

Sometimes does.

 

 

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