Tucked away on a one-way street,
in a North Shore town.
Wide windows abutting slight sidewalk.
The showroom is full of paint.
Rows and rows of paint.
Cans and tins and plastic 5-gallon buckets
shoved into ceiling-high racks.
Has that top row of primer ever been shuffled
since its intial display?
What of that alignment of putty?
And the blues--
the aquas and ultramarine, the turquoise and azure,
the blue jeans and persian creams,
indigo and cerulean...
all the combinations for washroom and baby-space.
But deeper back now...
a bend in the brick. Another L-shaped room.
Deep storage
but cheap cheap cheap!
In cans with fine, sturdy wire handles--
spittle from a dentist's cup
filling from an untouched wedding pie
jism
flakes from a skinned knee
tears from an Albanian refugee
all the smells of the New York transit system
and much more!
All vacuum-packed and efficiently labeled.
The barcodes ready to be scanned.
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