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.