in the early morning

I buy a box
of donuts for the painters
working outside
in the cold.
four cups of coffee.
I hear the clack of ladders,
the chatter
of their lives
as they work, their arms
moving with
a brush or roller,
laying on the greys,
the whites.
they smile and say
thank you in another
language.
their faces are red
and raw from the wind
and cold.
I wish there was more
that I could do for them,
and they look at me,
deep into my eyes,
and wish the same.