I was sitting on the staircase
to the old setting sun
whose patchwork rust and frayed edges
asked for a coat of paint.
Grey cement steps stared blankly at
shallow opaque puddles
of almost empty colour cans.
I picked up my best brush
and used every last drop of paint,
tiptoed on borrowed hours.
Grey-green backpack on my shoulder,
as I hurried away,
a dribble of paint ran downward
along midnight black sky.
It was a dreamy, clear skied night.
How the stars did twinkle!