nowadays, when stressed of love,
or just plain burnt out by the day's doldrums,
instead of drinking and drowning,
I go out to the garage and paint,
creating little creatures out of hammers,
dumb trinkets or postcards which
I send to my friends who probably
throw them away, but it's okay,
because it's not about the result,
it's about the relief of brush strokes
and glue, the passage of time,
the reflection of thought in
silly drawings of the devil,
and then, when everything is drying,
I do the dishes, because that calms me
before it's back to the sofa and insanity.