Mortimer

The dummy never sleeps. His body lies
inside a suitcase that his master locks,
and all night long he stares through lidless eyes.
His heart is buried in a cedar box.
It, too, is wood, consisting of some hidden
knobs and levers on a swivel-stick
he can't control. Words rise from him, unbidden;
his humor hinges on a magic trick.

Behind the boyish frame, a veteran voice
co-opts him as a witness on the stand
who's made to cover up — he has no choice —
the thrustings of an uninvited hand.
And yet, alone, he thinks with longing of
those furtive fingers, all he knows of love.