My condolences to the man dressed
for a funeral, sitting bored
on a gray folding chair, the zero
of his mouth widening in a yawn.
No doubt he's pictured himself inside
a painting or two around his station,
stealing a plump green grape
from the cluster hanging above
the corkscrew locks of Dionysus,
or shooting arrows at rosy-cheeked cherubs
hiding behind a woolly cloud.
With time limping along
like a Bruegel beggar, no doubt
he's even seen himself taking the place
of the one crucified: the black spike
of the minute hand piercing his left palm,
the hour hand penetrating the right,
nailed forever to one spot. |
| From A House Waiting for Music by David Hernandez. Copyright © 2003 by David Hernandez. Reprinted by permission of Tupelo Press. All rights reserved. |
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