tiny flakes of green paint stick to my chest as I stand on a
ladder ten feet high scraping loose peeling paint off of the
forty-two-year-old facia and then apply a coat of white primer
which will protect the aging wood for another ten years or so
my hand gripping the baking roof and my hat brim lowered to
protect my eyes from the blaring sun voices singing from tinny
speakers sitting on the step ladder it will take a shower or bath
to remove the flakes
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