I wake up mornings snug in my bed-puppet.
Not the liveliest in my repertoire,
but wait, it gets better: next is my pants-puppet,
bandy-legged, hyperactive, true
to life, puppeting lifelike down the hall
onto my waiting elevator-puppet—
a marionette—then down, down to my bus-
puppet, puppeting all those nodding heads,
those drowsy fingers on their so-called smart phones,
and wait till you get to see my office-puppet,
a tour de force of digitalization
that makes the city flap its arms in panic.
So this must be my poem-puppet, yes?
Don’t be naive. The poem is my hand.
Can’t you feel it here inside you, friend?
It enters where it can, and reaches up,
way up behind your eyes. So realistic,
how your mouth moves like that as you read.