Puppet-Maker Poem by Charles Simic
Puppet-Maker
In his fear of solitude, he made us.
Fearing eternity, he gave us time.
I hear his white cane thumping
Up and down the hall.
I expect neighbors to complain, but no.
The little girl who sobbed
When her daddy crawled into her bed
Is quiet now.
It's quarter to two.
On this street of darkened pawnshops,
Welfare hotels and tenements,
One or two ragged puppets are awake.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/23/2024 12:30:06 AM # 1.0.0.1119
