A tinker creates a doll for his heart-broken wife. My first sonnet.
A sad genius of machinery
explores the crux of humanity.
Nothing beyond coils, rods, and clogs has he.
A wife, broken-hearted, needs remedy.
A marvelous piece of machinery
utters the childish words: Pappy, Mammy.
Nothing beyond a phonograph has he.
A child, dearly beloved, is memory.
A wonderful thing of fantasy
animates rosy lips and chubby arms.
Nothing beyond latex and paint has he.
A mind inspired. A miracle forms.
Alas, her grief is not reduced. And, they
Broken-hearted remain and waste away.