A painting of an old man praying over bread. Candles lit in old Chianti bottles. Wax drips in colors of red and green. Two metal chairs by a wooden table with scratches and water rings on it. A Zippo lighter and a half empty pack of Newports in his pants pocket. The lamp light is dim.

He sits and reads The Rosy Crucifixion for the fifth time in his life. As he gets older, the story means more to him; love and loss of love, poverty, religion, to look death square in the eye and not blink. Freedom. “I was thirty-three. The year Christ crucified.”

The old man has spent a lifetime reading Miller along with The New Testament. He takes notes. Reads the text carefully. Paints pictures accordingly. Old scenes from Brooklyn and ancient Rome. Calvary and Paris.

His reading is done for the morning, and he mumbles. If you think Miller is about sex, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

The old man lights a cigarette and pours a cup of coffee. He takes cream from the refrigerator. And slices of bread from his loaf. He prays and gives thanks. Just like the painting of the old man.