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.