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.