The putty knife scrapes white circles on the walls,
Patching tiny nicks, filling tiny holes
Left by frames of beautiful scenes and brilliant
colors.
The dirty wrist wiping sweat from the furrowed brow
From hard work begrudgingly done.
Not a spec of creativity, only a stick in a can.
Not a glimmer of originality, only some spackling.
The profession grew tiring,
And as he dipped his roller in the tray,
He died.