by David Hernandez

by David Hernandez
     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.