with the windows the man says
pointing with his
white gloved hand.
they're ruined now.
i can see brush strokes.
i can see slight
ripples of paint.
i wanted them to look like
glass.
shiny and perfect, with
my reflection coming
back.
you only put three coats
of paint on them.
we're not paying you for
such shabby work.
i look at his wife,
her arms folded across
her chest.
a prisoner for life.
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