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.