ode to a puppet

these knuckles are dry
and these modest hands
smooth, folding the sheet
where the seam and bow meet.
and the night air is laughing
for the humbling act
as its trivial nonsense!
(enduring at that.)
so i sit with leg bent
barefooted and wrapped
in some woolen something
while answering back.
and i’m cocking a brow
at the eloquent tale
concocted with intent
epiphane! … nay.
and i feel sorry
for you.
so the billowing smoke
spills from fumbling lips
and i’m watching the t.v
skewed right from its hips
yes, i’m yawning but pining
to write something down
about “the night air
in a malleable town”
but, strike! erased before
i’ve thought to transcribe
how dull and how ’bosch’
…so i’m lead to your eye.
and you see the relation!
you see where they cross,
these paths of indifference
(or harrowing force)
but i believe the former
so i keep my leg bent
barefooted, i stumble
and toss the lament