NO CHOICE

          He intends only his own gain, and he is
          in this […] led by an invisible hand to promote
          an end which was no part of his intention.
                              —Adam Smith

The dangling puppet
knows it’s a puppet.
Is proud
of being a puppet.
Praises the strength
of that Invisible
Hand up there
without ever asking,
“Whose hand?”

The puppet—
bound to the Hand
by tough strings
(once jute or cotton,
now nylon, even steel)—
bows, struts, prances,
doggedly marches,
collapses
in a heap; then
resurrects to applause
from the audience:
also puppets.

“Now that’s
entertainment!”

A fine diversion
from the daily
angst, the vague
and after all
pointless (“they”
say) questions
about the Hand
and its many
manifestations.
Will the Hand fix
the chips and cracks
in our once smooth,
brightly painted limbs?
Will the Hand’s
touch heal the ache
in our grating
joints?

No healing ourselves.
We’re just puppets!

No choice then
but to depend
on the Hand and its
avatars, no choice
but to hope the strings
are strong enough
to hold us, to keep us
dancing like this
forever.