Please tell me: just who pulls your strings?
I’d really like to know.
I see you making pirouettes
and flitting to and fro,
much like a butterfly, who lights
on flowers here and there,
and samples each one with delight
not getting anywhere.
Myself? I am a puppet too,
I dance a merry jig,
although I found out years ago
my role is not that big.
I’m just a nameless extra;
call me Dancer 24.
Someone will play me in a week.
Another’s come before.
What music shall we choose for it,
if we may choose at all?
My preference is for comedy,
or something that they call
an incidental piece of work
best suited for the stage
between epic and throw-away,
mere notes upon a page.
So tell me: when you learned to dance,
who taught you how to fall,
before your clumsy feet learned how
to leap, parade, and crawl?
Whose shadow did you hide beneath
while trying to perform
the act you’ve now perfected,
taking the whole world by storm?
Me? I found books and magazines,
all filled with words and stuff
that in time helped me realize
we’re all just useless fluff
designed to be distractions
from another’s main event:
a small piece of the puzzle.
That’s become quite evident.
But still we must keep dancing,
at the far end of the strings
that out of sight, maintain control
and keep us at our thing:
pretending that we are the show
that people pay to see,
instead of dumb mute puppets
who imagine we are free.
12 Jun 2025