Hand Puppets

A hand puppet life I lead

For ain’t that the poets way?

Back and forth, left and right indeed,

These hands of mine, yapping away.

Upon my back I lay between,

While on my hands puppets debate,

These old socks one blue and one green,

Where notes I take of all they state.

And to listen to them carry on,

Mort on the left, Myron on the right,

It’s no wonder ‘round the bend I’ve gone,

Such is my turmoil listening to them fight.

Schizoid puppets if there ever were,

Polar opposites you would agree,

And holy cow what I must endure,

Sitting between them like a referee.

But these notes I’m meant to take

Of Mort in blue and Myron in green,

These two old socks for crissake,

Are the craziest puppets you’ve ever seen.

            But every once in a while

            They’ll offer up something profound,

And between these hand puppets I smile,

And clap their heads without a sound.