The Puppeteer

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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