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