Hands

It is a history, the room,
layering souls over the walls in
multicolored memories.
Hands, bronze and deliberate,
create a rhythm in their task.
Strips of white roll across
the tired blue expanse.
Laughter, caught
in the window,
echoes from the past.
I ask him if he can hear it,
but he only smiles and
drips
white paint on my nose.