Museum Guard

　　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.