The Doll

I stepped up to the counter

Forfeited the money

And placed the fabric in the bag,

Ready to give my creation

Life.

Though not a real person,

It was a symbol –

A symbol of my passion

For pursuing my own

Happiness.

The truth of the matter is,

I was obsessed

With the character

Who danced with such

Grace,

And I wanted to immortalize

Him in felt and thread –

Not really an idol, persé -

More like an

Icon.

And so, I set to work,

Cutting, sewing, gluing

With thin, nimble fingers

Perfect for playing

Music

On the oboe, which lay

Locked in the instrument cage

In the band room – but

Instrument cage sounds so

Cruel.

Why not call it

An instrument unit?

Surely oboes did not

Become feral and

Rebellious.

Back to work –

Now is not the time

To muse. Save that for

The stories you love to

Write.

So I continue to work,

Molding the fabric,

Drawing the pinstripes,

Pouring into the doll my

Love.

Hours passed

And days flew by

As Spring Break quickly

Came to an

End.

Finally, I picked up the doll.

The felt was formed in the

Unmistakable semblance of

Jack Skellington.

Perfect.