I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town
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I buy my paintings supplies from the only store in town, Jack’s on Bridge Street, the hardware *** toy *** anything-you-need store.
I buy my painting supplies by special order, delivered by ferry,where they get crazed at the colors I select, Vermillion, Drunk-tank pink, and the marvelous, quite scandalous, ***** Gallant.
My easel resides on my front porch, never moved, only when a wipe down is necessitated, or rain storm torrential makes it essential,
to avoid warping wood.
From the porch, I paint the view, from my house on the hill, overlooking the channel separating our tiny isle from the mainland is deemed magical amazing, for this same scene painted repeatedly, but differently,
a thousand times, a thousand changing ways.
Almost every home, only for the year rounders, has its own version, so my obituary, will be both in the town newspaper and forever before their eyes.
I do not sell my paintings, the ones supplied, gifted by my island.
Unasked, I notice that someone walks past my porch, my existence thus a daily-verification, in every season, but for the winter, but then, my presence is marked, publicized, nonetheless, duly reported,
by Jack’s delivery boys.
