Demon Inside Poem by Jan Sand

There is, down deep inside of me,
The engineer who makes my engine go.
He pulls my pulleys, spins my gears to see
Me run, to manipulate me, fast and slow.
A dented topper rides astride his curly mop,
Baggy cloth coat, shoes split apart, open toed,
Cupid mouth, puffed cheeks, eyes that pop.
He’s Harpo Marx and it’s his bestowed
Energy which pulls my arms, my legs, my frame,
Sends me out on mysterious forays,
To seek odd things I cannot name,
To dance his unfathomable ballets.
He insanely pedals so my heart can thump
To squirt my blood from toes to hair
And kid the experts that my heart’s a pump.
He squashes bellows so I suck in air
And then, with spreading rubber grin
When I’m immersed in a silent group,
So quiet you could hear a pin,
Suddenly, he puts me in the soup.
His nature puts the coarse before the heart.
He strikes the activating button
And, uncontrollably, I fart.
When, on occasion, I act the glutton
In good company, to roundly squelch
My dignity, he deftly leaps to misuse
His agile skills to make me belch.
I dread to find myself bereft of tissues;
An opportunity he never fails to seize
With obvious unrepressed delight.
Invariably he induces a liquid sneeze.
I suppose there might come a night
When he steps forth in revelation,
In open friendliness, to say hello.
“I’m Geppetto”, he’ll confide, no hesitation.
“And you, ” he’ll say, “must be Pinocchio.”