hanging there

I used to look across the room
and think,
this number will surely do me
in
and it’s not worth
it.

but I’d do nothing about it
and I wasn’t
lonely.
it was more like a space to
fill with something,
like a canvas,
you put something on it
even if it wasn’t very
good.

“what are you thinking
about, bastard?” she would
say.

“painting.”

“painting?    you nuts?
pour me a drink!”

and I would, I’d brush her
in there, drink in hand, sitting
in a chair, legs crossed, kicking
her high-heeled shoes.
I’d brush her in, bad tempered,
spoiled, loud.

a painting nobody would ever
have where they lived
except me.