running to the bank

some how you finish
the job
you're on
and get paid. having gone through
the myriad of
touch ups,
lines more accurately drawn.
filled in holes, again,
sanded, smoothed
the walls
and doors, beyond
reason.
somehow you've answered
every torn piece of blue
tape
the owner stuck
on each spot that concerned
him.
hundreds of torn strips,
some made into arrows,
pointing at the ceiling.
shadows that come and go.
a flurry of blue,
is that pin sized drip from
me or you?
he politely asks,
while you scrub
at an invisible spot
on the floor.