The Address Painters
Again this summer, lugging
behind them their red wagons stacked
with paint cans, they are coming.
They call to our street's evening-
lacquered lawns. Look,
it is the address painters I say
to the hibiscus, who lift
from the hose's ablution their ruby
heads. They arrange,
the men, their stencils
on the neighbors’ curb. I close
the faucet & watch. Once
he had razed the ancient, plague-
stricken districts of Paris, the Baron
Haussmann assigned to each
dwelling a letter sequence. & so
the great administration of late
capital commenced. Cubicles
for miles. The sky itself streaked
with flight plans. The painters trace
next to the address the red,
white, & blue of the flag. The black
background glistens. This
summer the number
of unemployed is the lowest yet headlines
say. The sweet pea
has taken root beautifully
in its bed of clover. & they are towing,
now, to my own easement their squeaking
wagons, as once—
his renovations failed, plague
racing through Haussmann's
arrondissements—the paupers
wheeled their carts of dead. All day
they have painted
our curbs. Their shirts
dark with sweat, they tell me
the price. Please,
they say. I pay
cash. I ask them
to make it new. They kneel
in my suburb's street.
