Nothing moves here.
Not the ribbons and plastic flowers-
The black oak and the soft chair.
The Celebrated Man doesn't move here.

He's smiling in photographs
And in words that aren't His own.
Inside names that aren't His own.

In a casket by the wall,
By a picture
In brown and white frames,
He lies in dirty glass.

People move among
Arms and black coats
But He doesn't fit
Into crowds.

Nothing moves here.
He lives in a world
Behinds closed eyes