The Painter

In our town
There was an older man
Who loved to paint to all day
He lived off his pension
His wife of fifty years
Had died of asbestos…
He set out
To paint a little portrait
Of everyone in our town — 1,000 people
And each of us happy to sit
For an afternoon with him
Neighbors asked
What are the chances he gets
Through all 1,000 of us
And reaches this goal of his —
Before he dies…
(he's pretty old, you know)
Don’t you cry, dear
He only painted 300−5 before he passed away;
The goal was a thin veneer —
A useful excuse for the aimless man
To spend less time alone