Today she will paint another door.
It is white. She has tolerated white for years,
thinking the house might sell. They say it is best.
white. Colors she never imagined
line store walls on paper strips. She fans
a pile of blues like a deck of cards. Water rises
to her knees. She is full
of regrets. Pick a card—as if this is
a trick. She settles on red and wide brushes.
A small can of paint. She does not think
she will ever open it. She pays the clerk
with a joker. The door leans
against the garage. She is uncertain if
it is the inside or out. She extends her left
then right arm. Without hinges and handle,
it is impossible to remember. The painting
goes well. Truths come in wet glides
of the brush. The first coat dries like questions.
The second explains shade
and sun and the fatal attraction of gnats.
She has painted all her doors. The puzzle
of inside or out is clear. She knows
all the colors: biscuit, sepia,
rust. Carmine, Titian red, damask
rose. Saffron, ocher. Avocado, cerulean,
plum, xanthic, mauve and puce. When it rains,
she reflects on the art
of coming and going. She sees
the way drops cling then run down glass.
She picks at the paint beneath her nails
and thinks about walls.