That Old Maxwell House Can

The day I could not

wait to see my father

come home so we could

pack up our rods and worms

and head out to the

reservoir - to catch fish

along her banks

felt eternally long in

the waiting.

I must have painted

the low brick wall three

hundred times that day

with the water that

was in that old

Maxwell House can

and my battered old

three inch trim brush

with china bristles.

It was mine to do.

Always as I waited.

Painting and watching

it dry so I could paint it

again and again and again.

On hot days the smell

of drying damp bricks

still gathers in the back

of my nose – forcing

a smile across my face.