Old Paint and Pale

Old Paint and Pale

Have you ever felt stained? I don’t mean with sin,
but with paint. Old paint. Paint stored in the garage.
Paint in rusty gallon buckets with drips down the side like
old-fashioned earring loops. Paint with scum on top
and dumplings on the bottom.

Have you ever felt stained by old paint?

Have you ever felt electrified? I don’t mean by joy,
but fences. Wire fences. Fences that hum high voltage.
Fences in muddy quicksand with muck giving birth
to mosquitos and disasters. Fences that whine with direct current
and pulses to prevent your escape.

Have you ever been electrified by fences?

Have you ever felt stranded? I don’t mean on purpose,
but houses. Old houses. Houses left to pasture.
Houses with rusty hinges and broken windows, the shards their
only decor. Houses everyone declares are haunted
with rats the only renters.

Have you ever felt stranded on old dirt floors?

Have you ever felt old? I don’t mean by measure,
but thrift store. Used jeans on a rack. Flannel shirts
that still smell of field and smoke. 8 track tapes and
players. They all bear the stains of usage, the strain
of shrinkage. 

Have you ever felt old like someone else’s clothes?

Have you ever felt godless? I don’t mean immoral,
but pallid. Opinions, like fog, faded. Belief, like fairies,
barely seen past legal age. Prayers, like babbling,
meaningful as a wordless book. The chasm is just as yawning,
In or around, air or solid ground.

Have you ever felt godless like gasps of supplication?