Death Of The Puppeteer Poem by Stephen Brian Brady

the day the puppeteer died
with gloved hands
he thrust the shutters open wide
while out at sea
yachts edge balanced on the roof's red tiles
straggling in single file
and light explodes as he sings
and drags his strings
from the crooked white fingers on the bed
a new world unravelling deep inside his wooden head
somehow down the stairs
across the hall
the hotel dog draws back against the wall
he finds the shade
a slatted chair on the promenade

discovered near the carousel
they hung him up to dry
and there he dances in the wind
with wild and staring eyes