Meditations on a Dropcloth

When I glance down this morning, 

the dropcloth is spattered extravagantly 

with paint, a shade I created 

with the guy at the store. 

“What do you want to call this color?” 

Staring into the gallon, a blue pool of the past, 

I answered quick: 

“Okinawa Teal.” 

And that’s the shade pollocked over the fabric 

at my feet today. The paint on the wall is dry, 

a little darker than I’d hoped, 

but still the perfect reminder 

of the beach I always wanted 

shining in an afternoon slant of light 

through a mauka window. 

Speckled flecks reveal 

my sloppy dips and dripping brush, 

and I remember my preparations yesterday, 

thinking I’d unfurl the material all the way 

and arrange the folds on the floor with care, 

and here is evidence I was right. 

I trust this erratic pattern 

means I was sloppy because a cloth lay placed 

to catch my mistakes, not that without the sheet, 

I might have dipped the brush more carefully.