in the darkened nursery

in the darkened nursery
rows upon rows of silent jack-in-the-boxes all paint furiously away at their faces
pasting glitter on red-rouged cheeks, gloved hands adjusting a cherry the size of a nose
preparing for the morning, when all the little jacks hear the gruesome jingling that means
	someone else was the one to be loved
and cry real tears out of wooden eyes.