The
clock ticked at three when two women
entered
the room, one dark, one fair.
Take
your brush, put aside Gaudi—
the
cupboard swung open to the artist’s palette.
Scurry
across the page in shades of sage,
obliquely
color the moon,
temper
the threads of the puppets,
dancing
their rage this way and that,
cajole
the rhythm of life into color and paint,
acrylic,
paper nubs—or puppet’s snubs.
The
dark-haired woman sat in the waiting room,
in
a large red dress with leather shoes;
as
she sang and smiled to herself,
I
asked her what she did.
“I
am a puppeteer,” she said.
Then
at last a door opened,
and
a nurse called for her
to
take her injection in the next room.
Emily Isaacson
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