With Her Strings Cut

Sitting on the stoop
Head hanging low
Hands limp betwixt the legs
Knees knocked together
A marionette hanging limp
Strings dangling short
Link to a controlling hand cut

Who is this puppet in front of me
Long black hair covering her face
Long white stockings pulled up over knees
Showing a couple inches of thigh
Before the tidy navy jumper begins
Sitting so still
On the stoop

What dreams go on in this golem's head
Dances and plays all acted out
So used to traveling to places far away
Usually tucked in a travel trunk
In the baggage compartment
Along with the Royal Mail

I want to brush the black hair away
To reveal her hidden face
To see what there is so see
But I remain rooted in my place
The mystery must remain
The larger part of me agrees
Thus staying my hand and anchoring my feet

I look all around
But see no higher power
No operator
No handler
No larger puppeteer's angry glower

I leave her there
On her stoop
In her pose
And when next I pass by
She is gone

So the mystery remains
Where did she come from
Where did she go on to
What adventures is she playing out
Now that she is in control of her own fate
Her strings pulled by none but herself