From bucket into stripes, Steady on the pool becomes awash, Machine without the pipes, Heady smell wafts up-bove drying lips, Like so the march persists each pane in tow, Munitions stocked again - the paint will flow.
What is this absolute mess on the floor? All painted now and tossed upon the tiles, Straight cubic chunks like packaged soldiers, Striking chaotic rank and file in all but a measly pile? Oh that's Caleb, He must be chuffed to bits.
Standing here I tap away, And wonder how this leaning frame, Finds balance true in doubtless dance, From tendons, bones that hold me there, And guiding brain that seems to pair, My motions with my active mind, And on two feet I stand upright.