World Theater

There was a small golden man
Reading to me from a dirty book.

Its contents were scandalous,
Especially the intimate pictures

Of the nude landscape.
There was a doll lying facedown

As if she had been shot,
And the golden man scooped

Her into his arms.
I followed him for many miles.

Finally, he used a piece of rose quartz
To write something on her

Porcelain face. She had a way
Of expressing nothing at all.

What are you writing, I asked him.
He refused to tell me.

Instead he shoved her into a mailbox.
Now it was story time again.

I sat on a park bench to listen.
The golden man had a new book.

It was called the secret of the universe,
And its pages were blank.

It had been delivered in a blind wrapper
By a postman who dressed like a thief.