The Elf

A poem by Ellen R. Jewart

By Ellen R. Jewart

I see The Elf. He’s sitting there beneath
The wooden kitchen chair. He’s no jolly
Sprite, this one. Look how he’s dressed. See him come.
His cap’s a beret of inky black. Eyes
To match and sooty brows leave me wond’ring:
“What’s his game? What does he want?” Look again!
No pack carries he, but an old toolbox
Dark and dented. On the toolbox I see
A broken clasp. I can view a mish-mash
Of implements he’ll use at will, furth’ring
His game. He sneaks upon his innocent
Victim, regardless of time, day or night,
Pulling from the box his pliers, cutters,
Using them to bend some wires, cut others.
Gleefully, he attacks the brain. Victim
Knows no pain, but lights begin to sputter
And spin. Victim’s ears fill up with sand. There’s
Struggle, but the band of steel ‘round Victim’s
Brain causes the eyes to go unfocused,
Seeing what’s no longer there, looking through
Cloudy mist at what was known before this.
For sev’ral hours, Victim sits within the
Chair where safety lies, saying little, yet
Wond’ring what happened to senses and mind.
Elf packs up his box to go, but he’ll be
Back again, he knows. A few wires more he’ll
Twist and bend, while Victim tries to make some
Sense of more confusion and shaky hands.
It’s bit by bit that Elf takes o’er. He’s not
Intimidated by my glowering.
For Elf right now holds all the power and
Steadily, quietly moves in his quest.
His name I now know, but my new knowledge
Changes nothing. I can’t stop black Elf’s run.
Know you his name? I’ll share it: Parkinson.

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