the cold paint

I hear
the painters outside
scrapping
at the side of my house.
the clang
of ladders as they rise
and rest
against the brick,
the sills.
it's 33 degrees out
and the paint won't stick.
but there's a job
to do,
money to be made.
they are bundled like
robbers,
only the eyes show,
or lips
when they take a break
to smoke
and drink coffee.
they arrive at first light
and will
leave
as the winter sun melts
yellow
behind the trees.
the paint will last a week
or so,
never curing, or drying
in the wet
cold air.
but it's work
and Christmas is coming.