The ladder was on the ground,
The roof was on the house,
And the poet, his eyes resting
Beneath his blue Greek fisherman’s cap,
Stared at the half-painted
Gutter and knew
Where he had been
And where he had to go.

She, the other poet, a woman
Who in the “real world” pulled
Words of business into the
Realm of English, looked
Over at her lover, and then
At her house. She saw dots and dashes
The ladder had left
As he had moved it along.

“I cannot defy gravity,” he said
And smiled, his face taking on
The look of a happy Buddha.
Though his eyes had never seen Tibet,
He had often
Been told
He had something
Oriental about him.

“It’s your ladder,” he said.

She looked at him, his shirt
Pulled out, and though she
Loved him, she wanted to
Dangle him from the roof
Like an entangled mountain
Climber and watch him swipe
The air
With his paintbrush
And his attitude.

She looked at the ground,
Then she looked up into his
Eyes, almost as blue as his cap.
“Would you give me
The shirt off your back?” she asked.
He swallowed and said yes.
“And how about your socks?”

She took them and booted
The ends of the ladder,
Then leaned it against
Her home and climbed up to
Finish painting. And when she
Was done, she had painted over
The points of their conversation.