Painter

he wakes still drunk to toil

from underneath stiff blankets

puts the water on to boil

the hotplate still working

electricity not cut off yet

isn’t surprised to find dirty gyprock

pieces dumped by the door, scraps he hauled home drunk

on which to lay down lines

of paint so thick with childhood

residential school memories

his wife has to scrape them away

with a pallet knife

before they harden hurtful

and unproductive

speaking of his wife: she wants the latest painting done

she’s always afraid he’ll choke

to death on his own vomit

before the last painting can be sold

to buy pampers and pay the electric bill

she has and she will

hold him in her arms all night

to protect him from himself