A man 91 years old with a broken hip
barely able to get into the seat of his van
sits in a booth at an art show selling
his beautiful watercolor paintings
out of cardboard boxes for fifteen dollars.
They shame anything I could do.
Fat Dutch irises bloom on a sheet
splashed with color. Bouquets of
I Don’t Know What in round vases.
Landscapes and barns.
He can probably do them in his sleep
my neighbor says.
You’re 91 and you’re doing art shows?
I ask, incredulous.
Art shows have been good to me
he says and I, chastened, vow never
to complain of the heat, the rain,
the difficulty ever again.
Knowing full well that I will.
Forgiving myself in advance.