He used to sit
with legs crossed
and hands folded
in his lap
for hours,
staring at the ticking clock.

One day I asked why.
“It’s all there is,” he said.

Then I heard
he decorated
that smug round face
and its Roman numerals
with blood, brain
and skull fragments
as those relentless hands
spun their slow waltz
in silence.

His handwritten note
said only,
“I got bored.”