It’s august,

I’m painting her room the

lightest sky I can find,

so clear,

even the clouds would forsake

their names just to glide

across its face.

Gray drop cloths are its land

brushes, the trees that sway


up and down to cover and change

those unsightly memories and runs

I can’t escape.

My daughter’s furniture is gone,

sold or taken away

Eighteen years of phone calls

clothes and hair barrettes were

gathered, parcelled and moved.

Now the room goes to its primitive state 

lines are disconnected and gone,

posters moved on

leaving their tiny

teeth marks in the wall

And I’m tempted to skip the brush

like the child she was over their places.


Dave Barber

Collection: Painting with Fingers