#415: Gepetto

Upstairs, in that small room above his shop,
the puppeteer is carving something new;
his gnarled and wrinkled hands know what to do
as all around his feet the shavings drop
like Autumn leaves. His knife blocks out a chin
and notches lips above; the nose a twig
repurposed. Two knotholes will serve for big
blue eyes with just a little paint. Within
the hollow of his chest, where blind grubs ate
scant days ago, the ashes of his boy
now dead these seven years--a father's joy
whose smile made sweet a life he'd grown to hate.

A few more spells, perhaps another day--
his son will live again, and God will pay.
_