and what have we here?

the woman in line

at the grocery

store looks me up and down

with curious

interest,

not of the romantic kind,

but one of what

have we here.

me covered in paint

from boot

to hat,

dust and debris,

drywall mud,

a thumb bleeding.

caulking on my sleeve.

you have paint on your face,

she says,

hold still, then takes her hand

and with a nail

flicks off a speckle of

dried flat white

paint

away from my eye,

then another off my cheek..

there you go, she says.

now you're fine.