PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

This picture is all and only tan,

a neutral color, an earthy tone,

an off-white darker than eggshell.

Khaki.

This shade will soak up slightly more light

than it would if it were white,

reflecting less and making the room

just a little less bright.

The tone is consistent across the frame

on all sides and in the center,

either the lights are on,

or unblocked sunlight shines

through a nearby window,

or maybe it’s just the flash,

ensuring that the photographer’s shadow

makes no appearance on his or her blank statement.

The paint is satin, or semi-gloss.

It must be an indoor wall,

with a skeleton of two by fours,

thirty six inches on center.

The wires running inside are either white

or yellow if a kitchen or bathroom is on one side.

Somewhere outside of the frame

there is at least one electrical outlet.



The texture tells me first

that this wall is new enough

that lathe and paster haven’t had time

to sag and crack and bulge

from the shifting of an aging building.

Second, from the minute bumps

and valleys, it would appear

that paint makes the shade

on some wall, and so there must be a floor

and a ceiling, and other walls attached.

A drip of paint here, a painted over speck,

a seam in the dry wall.

Someone was not a perfectionist,

and this is not a million dollar home.

Nevertheless, the mysterious painters

were proud of their work,

and the “mudder” of plaster before them,

and the dry wall installer before them,

and the carpenter before them.

Maybe one or two men

did all that was necessary

to turn an empty space

into these 2 dimensions of grey

which are 3 in real life.

No damage is seen, and the color is uniform,

fresh paint, probably laid on in two coats

by a roller with sponge, judging by the way

no brush strokes are seen.

This layer is young,

whether or not it hides other layers beneath,

and protected from the sand-blasting elements

which would make paint peel and fade.

There are no tiny holes in the wall,

tell-tales of nails that used to hold pictures,

so this picture-less wall has been so

since before this coat of paint

was applied.



Where there is one wall, there is a room

and where there is one room,

there is at least one more,

unless of course the bathroom is open

for remodeling or in disrepair,

but this wall is too clean to be

in a place with a bathroom

that has no walls.



The texture of this wall would make

easy footholds for spiders to climb

in search of a place to hang their trap

and scurry back down out of sight.

The proverbial fly on the wall could land

though easily seen she could stand

sideways, glancing in all directions

as she consumes single-celled prey,

leaving all sorts of bacteria in her wake,

and listen to the conversations

in sound waves bouncing off

this flat and barren space.



Not many people like their wall to be tan,

perhaps the denizens of the room with this wall

cannot choose their own tint,

or haven’t yet decided on a change,

or found supplies.

Maybe they just really like tan,

but neutral colors are standards

for rental homes and apartments.



Of course, if walls could talk,

this wall could tell me what I want to know.

How long has it been there?

Who sees it these days?

How many kicks and scratches

and holes has it endured?

Do pipes run behind it, or only wires?

Is there a family of mice?

What about cockroaches?

Why would someone take a picture of you anyway?

But this wall is as silent as it is blank.

It stands unapologetically mute,

the worst kind of witness,

the best kind of confidante.



One question can be answered,

at least to some degree.

Why is this wall her?

Why, to separate.

A room from a room,

a place from a place,

a home from a home.

Whatever happens on the other side,

we cannot see from this vantage point,

and through this picture cannot here,

though from where the photographer stood,

all but the quiet sounds could be heard,

muffled through the layers of paint,

paper, rock, and wood,

and possibly fiberglass

insulation.



Tan.

The color of skin baked by the sun,

the color of shorts cut in the style of Bermuda

in Dockers commercials,

or Gap ads in magazines.

The color of the sand under bare feet.

The color that speaks of leather

being made ready to sow into shape

and sold for someone to wear.

The color of chocolate pudding

that isn’t chocolate enough for me.



The paint covers up seams and screw indentations

made by special drills, or at least special bits,

designed to sink the screw

only just enough below the flat surface,

but not enough to punch through

the paper covering the gypsum.

Undoubtedly, there is plaster over top

of dry wall tape: the best way

to make sections of dry wall

seam seamless.

It dried and was sanded,

the dust swept away

before it came time to paint.



But what about when

the wall will come down?

Destroyed slowly or over time,

even the best work of human hands

will slowly fade or crumble.

Just the same as ruins of ancient

long dead civilizations,

this wall will be overgrown

by wild vegetation.

The shingles of the roof above

will fail unless replaced

and water damage will leave

mostly just the wooden boards behind

until the nails rust and snap apart.

That of course is only if it doesn’t burn first,

or is knocked by sledgehammer,

or bulldozed to the ground

to make room for the next improvement

of the space where only vegetation stood

so long before a city grew

to plant this unknown room

on roots of poured concrete.



Even a picture of a wall

is worth a thousand words.