Poetry

The Old Painter

by David Mampel

I like to pretend
a serious painter
wearing a loose shirt
lives rent-free
in my attic hideaway.

His voice wakes me
singing unselfconsciously
in the lazy enchantment
of a Sunday afternoon.

Tea boils on the stove
and we sit together
sipping in silence.
He stares down a fly
buzzing and bumping against
the almost-sunny window pane.

He feels like a wild grandfather
just sitting there
intensely in his body
without a word.
I love the yellow paint
lost on his sleeve.

Tears slowly surprise
sleepiness from my eyes
when he offers
to teach me
how to make and stretch
my own canvas.

I kiss him on the cheek
and smell his urgency
in the short life
he has left.
I am younger than a real man
my age,
but today I tasted death
and know I will paint
old trees for the first time
with fierce beauty
breaking away
from the seal of approval
in uncommon colors
mixed on a pallet
with anger, fear, joy
and sadness to back me up!