You scraped some old paint off the door;
I put spackle in holes in the wall.
We took a break, smoked cigarettes,
Then back to work we cheerly went.
You scraped and swore at something hard;
I sang “Home On The Range” so gladly.
Then, paint cans open and brushes poised,
We attacked the kitchen like mad.
Your pony tail bobbed as I glanced and smiled;
You were very fast, but not too wild.
I finished the ceiling while you were kneeling,
And didn’t splatter you even once.
We sat down for lunch—coffee for two,
And your white-tipped chin was the soul of you.
Then into the dining room—it was small—
We got out rollers and chose a wall.
And up and down we rolled and sang,
“She’ll Be Comin’ Round The Mountain, in the rain!”
We laughed awhile at our freckles new,
Then I left my soul on the lips of you.