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.