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.