The news hour was late, set’s volume was faint
A microphone dangled at the crack of her door,
It caught my attention and I heard the retort
“She don’t know him from an old can of paint.”
An old can of paint. Hmm …. wait.
That’s an odd expression I said to myself.
I pondered out loud while scratching my head.
An old can of paint is nothing shy of great.
It sits in the corner gathering dust.
With a rusty ole lid, next to the trash.
Overlooked year after year.
By a life that’s too busy to be given a stir.
It might be dull, It might have sheen.
Might be a color that’s never been seen.
A greener green than an evergreen.
The color of nature in an exotic dream.
Just an ole can of paint, lying in wait.
To brighten a life and cover old stains.
Ya it most certainly needs to be shaken up.
By gentle hands or a violent machine.
But once given a whirl, and that top is popped,
Fear not the mess, there’s no reason to stop.
Grab a wide roller with a deep thick pile.
Attached to a pole that stabs the bright sky.
Soak up the color from a new shiny pan.
Start changing surroundings with the thrust of both hands.
There’s an old can of paint, lying in wait.
A trip to the landfill is not its fate.
Grab it, shake it, use both hands.
Make a big difference from this old rusting can.
