I’m naked and incomplete,
in the open space of the work yard.
My last master chopped off my limbs,
and left a plane. Sweat-washed
I wait for the new one…
He’s different – soft hands,
sweet breath, gentle way, silent…
save his sigh.
My ex-master was an ordinary dreamer.
He cussed, spat, cried, played… talked.
He spoke of his daughter, what he’d buy her
when she remembered who he was.
Master is making me into a marionette!
I clam up, refuse to be shaped.
He sighs hard and strikes hard,
harder than my back is used to.
I scream “why?”
He whispers “I make dolls, didn’t you know?”
“My old master never made me into a damned puppet.”
“Well, I am not him.”
Today I stand on his table.
He winds me up and I jig.
His women friends remark at my quaintness,
my rich finish. One of them says I’m a doll
with a pretty smile and sad eyes.
I’m not frightened now – at least he talked.