The paint kettle streaked for a hundred years

had been passed down to me

down the male line the last of three

generations

of joy  hope  grief  tears streaked

oil based and water based

a rainbow of life's moments

running down, 

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.