Ruth Walters (London, U.K.)
A dolls eye view
Dolls sit among the cushions in her bedroom
as though they are all waiting for her.
Their porcelain faces in fixed smiles,
their eyes wide, cobalt blue
and their pretty dresses have lace collars.
Little tea cups, in miniature, are on saucers,
arranged on a small table.
There is a pot with yellow flowers,
it holds centre place and is surrounded
by plastic cakes and pastries.
On her bed is a huge rag doll,
it's flopped over and lies there, helpless.
Her nightie is on the floor
covering her slippers but the toes peep through.
Soon she will return.
She will run into her bedroom daintily,
go straight to the corner where I sit.
I, with my broken arm, one eye
and bald head. Then she'll pick me up
and call me her baby.
I was the first doll she ever had,
still here, still treasured,
but failing now, roughened by use,
by play times, but thoroughly
and most definitely loved.
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