Pinocchio Is Old
The wood is too seasoned,
the grain grown hoary.
A cat dozes in a corner of darkness,
it will not look at the puppet.
In a twilit kitchen
an old man grumbles.
His joints are dry, they creak
as he gums a boiled egg.
Oak eyes open wide.
Pinocchio is old.
Stringy sinews dangle
his crotched frame.
Hollow veins grind
inside the sullen cage
of his breast.
Made to deceive the eye
he has become what
we dare not look upon.
Soon the wind will thump
the cottage door.
In the potbellied stove
crackling logs pray
never to be that thing
that hangs and glares all-seeing,
like a painted moon.
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