Paint On My Toes
There is paint on every one of my fingers, on every pinkie, maybe even a bit on my toes.
Neon paint, the hardest to get off, I’ve scrubbed myself twice, thrice, four times, maybe.
A child asks me, “What is on your arm?” around noon. It’s been there all day, paint that glows.
I had no idea I had put my elbow in the paint bucket also, until 2 when someone points that out.
When I am up painting at three in the morning, I am not careful, I look down at a dollop of red on my toes.
I’ve been known to whip off my shirt next to the art studio windows, when I realize what I’m wearing.
A good way to meet the neighbors you say? They might as well know who I am, and what’s up with my clothes.
The only way they can see me is through forty-two oaks, a couple of elms, and a cottonwood tree.
I took their deer stand down ten years ago, when I realized it was on my property, by a foot and a nose.
This painting gig is perfect for me, it helps me get out all of my mad and sad, feelings I get a lot anymore.
Gardening helps me too, I call this dirt therapy, and it’s the best outlet, I love watching things grow.
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