The Art Room

My father’s mind is escaping,

From his wheelchair he can see through the art room window,

A bright yellow line of sand,

A blue-green line of open sea,

A powder blue sky,

Though what they mean to him now I do not know.

He sits at the table with a red crayon,

Filling in the spaces of a children’s coloring book,

He keeps within the lines but it’s all red.

Still, he surprises me sometimes,

Looks at me with something of his old smile, and says,

But it’s not quite Rembrandt, is it son?