I count each layer of paint
to pass the time of our labouring.
Looking for a time when
their taste matched ours.
Not even close. Lavender?
Weird puce?
Where did they find this brown?
What did they call it? Monkey’s belly?
Do you mean they actually
lived in a room like this?
What kind of a mood
did it put them in?
We can feel them reaching out,
those unknown painters,
dusting their brushes
up and down our spines.
We are a word in the sentence,
a letter in the word
that spells the house, and ours
will reach out, in our turn.
—Published 1st of December 2019
About Edward Alport
Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.