Old Paint

The blue paint chipped
and I took the scraper to
it—now the question is
where to stop. Layers
of colors underneath,
then down to the bone
of the original plaster
over lath—the paint peels
off in flat flakes, elegant curls,
tiny chips, a confetti pile on
the floor, someone else's work
being undone as I continue--
a small patch, a couple inches,
expanding, with a will of
its own, not straight, but in
arcing curves over the
panels on the door, shapes
humorous and terrifying--
I pause, step back, aware
of another scraper, picking
away at mind-layers, years and colors,
working in the dark, by feel
at best—where to stop?
I pick up a piece of sandpaper,
feather the paint as best I can,
step back slowly, to the point
where things look good--
good enough—if I don't
look too long.