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 its 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.
Two men looked out a window,
one saw mud and the other saw stars...
A gentle reminder that we become our responses...
Have a great day!
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