A Poem For Saturday


“Puppet Maker” by Charles Simic:

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.

(From Master of Disguises: Poems by Charles Simic © Charles Simic 2010. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Photo by Flickr user boklm)