the worker

nothing is what it seems.

you look out
the window
at the painter on the ladder
at 8 am
on a Saturday morning and wonder
what's going
on in his head.

he must be cold out there.
does he have a wife,
children?
is he behind on his bills?

is he
happy
with that brush in hand,
happy to have a
job, to be working
this deep into winter.
is he in love?

nothing is what it seems.

what goes on in anyone's head
is unclear.
what they say,
what they're feeling, who
they really are
is a mystery unsolved
even in death.

this love we all want
and feel that we need, what
is it?
what does it really bring
into your life?
pain, joy, both perhaps
in equal measure?

nothing is what it seems.

I take coffee out to the man
on the ladder.
he doesn't speak English,
but nods and smiles.
he points to where I can put
the cup, then
continues with his work.