“Trick it.”
The crank creaked under the pressure of
what in truth
was no more than a tin
music box.
Its rusted tune so indiscernible,
each pricked pin an oxidized note, an aria
from some unfinished
opera.
With each turn
I waited
for the telltale click
that would signal
his release.
Yet the latch held tight,
and the bolt stayed put
as I waited
for the upside-down trap door
to snap up—
Pop!—
and out comes Jack,
the star of the show.
The more I turned the handle,
round and round the mulberry bush,
the more the tune came clear:
the monkey thought ’twas all in fun.
Then I began to question:
Was I the monkey or the weasel?
Round and round,
I chase, I wait.
I am the hand on the crank
and the spring in the dark,
both of us listening,
one pin short of the pop.
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