Sadness of just-painted rooms.   
We clean our tools   
meticulously, as if currying horses:   
the little nervous sash brush   
to be combed and primped,   
the fat old four-inchers   
that lap up space   
to be wrapped and groomed,   
the ceiling rollers,   
the little pencils   
that cover nailheads   
with oak gloss,   
to be counted and packed:   
camped on our dropsheets   
we stare across gleaming floors   
at the door and beyond it   
the old city full of old rumors   
of conspiracies, gunshots, market crashes:   
with a little mallet   
we tap our lids closed,   
holding our breath, holding our lives   
in suspension for a moment:   
an extra drop will ruin everything.