Fresh Coat

The lime-green paint is still a little wet,

a shade we promised we would never use.

It sits against the brickwork like a threat,

or like a debt I didn’t know I’d lose.

I used to prune that hedge with heavy shears

until my palms were mapped in blistered lines.

A plastic delivery bag now interferes

with the growth of all the tangled vines,

snagged on a twig and shivering in the heat.

I’m just a stranger walking down the street

watching a door swing open to a hall

where I no longer recognize the wall

or the way the light hits the floor.