Oshinn

He paints
with effort. I see him
on Sundays.

Medications,
16 pages long. (Paxil?
He is 91.)

All the songs
I sing are trapped by
the linoleum;

all the watercolors
run together on his wall.
They are aged too,

yellowed by
fluorescent light. The tape
is peeling back.

He paints countrysides.
How we are both dreaming,
as he works.