There is a store where marionettes dance
Though they hang from the ceiling by fingerless hooks.
Tin cars bustle by on the tarmac of paint
On tables to nowheres and allwheres at once.
Piles of maps detail who-knowsest? places—
If you listen for waves then you might see ships sailing.
Carnival posters crammed with clowns whose best joke
Is to turn into ink when you call to your parents.
Masks! Bergamasques! Carnivale in Venice!
With upside-down Ceilingtown canals made of sequins!
Lovely old teddy bears wink through the eyeholes,
Scheming to make you look twice and step closer.
And there at the center is a little old man,
His grey hair in locks falling over his ears.
This wizard’s beret is quite jauntily angled;
Worn just correct to be incorrect rightly.
That is, incorrect for what’s outside the doorsill
For rarely does anyone visit his world.
It is a magic home kept for the toys
Old Pinocchio is fixing from twilight to morning song.
Long, long ago did he wish off his puppet strings
But real boys’ whiskers grow whiter with age.
Hands start to shake as the Sphinx is unriddled;
For that is the price of the Blue Faerie’s kiss.
Soon he discovered that real boys who giggle,
Without math books, train tickets and college degrees,
Aren’t very useful for making dreams real
To stave off the boredom of rich boys’ impatiences.
So he locked himself up in the toy chest he came from
Whose inside is all that remains of Geppetto.
There he can live in the world of puppet-sense
Where real boys are dreamlings who need bodies of fancy.
That’s where you’ll find him if you go a-hunting.
You’re welcome whenever but don’t bother knocking.
He doesn’t answer for he’s very busy
And candlelight side-eyes sprites tease for attention.
He might spare a nod but he’s got real boy business
Painting and stitching with delicate care.
Filling his chest with forgotten delights:
All the toys he has rescued from grownup boy memories.
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