Pigment swirling in her paint,
the custom-designer is decked out
in multi-splotched jeans,
an enormous work shirt, sleeves rolled,
and a husband's frayed Saints cap.
She tests a strip, stands back
to measure the effect against
the image floating just beyond
consciousness, the stuff of angel
schematics and the plastics
of extreme makeovers.
Color imprisons her as bristles
meet sheetrock. Her arms move
mechanically, planting the seeds
of home improvement. Polymers
of acrylic acid clutch pristine walls.
She sways to the spilling tint
losing herself in spinning neon
tangles on the conveyor belt
of hope. She flops on the floor
and stares at the perfect perfidy
of the choice she was beguiled
to make from the 13 sequential
shades the salesman offered,
his tongue grooved and clacked
as feet clicked on the polished floor.