Painting the Dartboard for Some Renaissance Fest

My boss is named Archie.
He is a short man,
mid fifties, perhaps,
always wears sunglasses.
I imagine him as a jester
with a vile of poison
in the pocket of his red,
Ed Hardy hoodie.

He tells me I have 16 hours
to finish the queen. I tell him
I think that’s doable.

She is a seven foot-tall head
with jewels in her Raw Sienna hair
and currently no pupils.
Tomorrow, I will make her blush.

I know that despite
how carefully I paint the folds
of her frilly collar,
what royalty I give to the pout of her
Titanium White/Cadmium Red Medium blend lips,
I cannot save her.

I wonder who sews the clothes
of people on death row.
Do they remind themselves
not to bother
over a dropped stitch?