the wooden ladder

i am twelve feet up the wooden ladder. the hot brick burns through my jeans. i am painting a red enamel sign for a cheap shoe store on Figueroa. a coffee can of paint hangs from a wire. i hold my breath to keep the edge sharp. then the morning shakes hit. my wrist spasms. the small brush slips. a thick streak of red drips down the mortar. it looks like a busted lip. i wipe it with my bare hand. the wet paint smears into the grey dust.