i’ve set my room up like a dollhouse: rotary telephone atop the wood desk in the corner, teacup atop the wood
shelf against the wall opposite
the window. knobs on the drawers,
one missing, sat atop the dresser,
retired from the scene.
the shade is bestowed on the window each night and lifted each morning;
this used to be my mother’s job,
and now, with my hands, the doll’s,
near the dirty window sill, i fear
she has forgotten to love me.
i fear she is dead or dying, and i fear
the dollhouse will go out of use or
worse, be disassembled and turned
into an ornament. (this is why
i have left the posters i plan to hang
on the desk)
the doll sits upright in his bed,
he sits hunched over with noise
in his ears, wishing he were
frivolous and unaware as he was
when he wrote in the pink, orange,
purple diary. he wishes he were
frivolous like he never was, wishes
he had no use for guilt like he
always has.
who will remind him that those
brown pants hung up are his favorites, and that dollhouses have no electricity, and that dolls are made of porcelain
with cheeks pinker than his?