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The Watercolorist

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.