Here’s a poem about a well-known person, from the perspective of another . . .
It goes something like this . . .
The Hand that Moves Me
He made me not in his image
For his skin was not green
But my voice was his voice
His fingers my expressionHe made me from a discarded coat and
Ping pong balls when he was fifteen
I shake my head now, realizing
I’m older than he would ever beHe took to TV with a gang of felt misfits
Painting numbers and ideas on the screen
A once-dying program suddenly
becoming a Street unendingHe made me bold, to mask his shyness
What he could not say, I was always keen
So much felt came to life by his hands
A creature shop came to be, whereHe made amphibian, barnyard expats and rats
Uninhibited vegetables and fruit were routine
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