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my fisrt poemCategory: poem
Tuesday, 28 November 2006
01:35:31 AM (GMT)
The Dummy
by Michael Mack
In that forgotten part of town
Where wasted hopes and dreams abound,
A wrinkled man with life near end,
In hopes to have at least one friend,
Fashioned bits of wood and things
And made a dummy run by strings.

He sat alone for hours on end,
Conversing with his only friend
And found delight within the fact
That he controlled it's every act.
He told it how he never had
A chance, since all his luck was bad
Although he'd tried so to succeed -
The dummy nodded and agreed.

And how his journeys in romance
Had never given him a chance,
And wasn't it a crying shame
That he was always held to blame
When everyone knew, oh so well,
That life is but a living Hell,
Controlled by lust and power and greed?
The dummy nodded and agreed.

With patience that would rival saints,
That dummy sat through all complaints
And, with each little expert tug,
He'd droop his head or bow or shrug
And give some comfort to the man
Who held his lifelines in his hand
And helped to fill a lonely need
When he just nodded and agreed.

Senility increased with time
As did the old man's phantomime,
And feverish fingers pulled with glee
The dummy's dance of misery.
They never left each other's side
Until the day both stopped and died.
We found them lying, hand in hand,
The dummy - and his wooden friend.

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