THE PAINT KETTLE
The paint kettle streaked for a hundred years
had been passed down to me
down the male line the last of three
of joy hope grief tears streaked
oil based and water based
a rainbow of life's moments
solidified like time past.
Another door to paint
the old old story, but where will it end?
When will the paint run out, life drying up
no more streaks,
and brushes in jars with rigor mortis.