He loomed above her,
on the fourth rung of the ragged ladder,
his brush strokes were swift
on the crusted clapboards.
She knew two things.
He'd rather being playing ball,
and a fresh coat is futile on peeling paint.
He spoke to her as he labored,
of Mao and and other communists,
it was beyond her comprehension,
she only knew of the brush and the paint.
Later they would return the soda bottles,
and share the Mallow Cup candy.
She'd lick the wrapper,
and he'd speak of foreign wars
and of far away lands.
He had missed the ball game,
but the side of the house looked
deceptively clean,
and she had learned a lesson,
from her harrowed hero.
Comments
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A good write that tells me that the mundane things in life are more important than the ideologies of another country. In line 2 of verse three 'and and', a typo, I think. You write well . Cheers, Bob.
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