The shock-haired clown,
tying himself up in knots,
playing to the gallery,
strutting in baggy pants,
he thinks he’s the greatest,
never seeing the strings;
and the dolls,
sad little drabs -
one in tawdry red
and faded finery,
trying to buy the eye
with tattered lace;
the other timid, dull,
hoping sober browns
will attract him,
her draggled mob-cap dusty;
all helpless, all
hung on the wall of life,
puppets caught in the eternal
triangle.
Only puppets,
I think.
(August,
1987)
