The Painter.

I am troubled by these new designs
that flock my patterned walls with straight arrows.
The painter has to come and finish this mess.
He has big, flabby arms, a pointed nose,
and beady eyes like a wolf.
I couldn't see myself marrying him,
or anyone else for that matter.
My mother, she was such a saint,
she did all the painting herself on the old house-
the one with the faded wallpaper that made
me think of the houses in the 80's,
you know what I'm talking about,
the ones where the construction builders
don't paint the house for you.  You have to hire
someone else.  And now, as I am standing here,
watching the painter work with the walls,
I think again of how lucky I am to have a house
at all-I thought about this before, and before,
and before.