Dolls
       

The dolls wait for the children
to wake up. They lie on their backs,
staring upwards as though

the ceiling were a resting place.
For them, love is what counts—
holding them, talking softly,

making certain they sleep
comfortably in their beds.
Knowing how to dress dolls

is an art—just what color socks
each takes, like pouring tea, how
many gowns, where the shoes go.

Dressing could take all day, or
just a second. Dirt sticks
to a doll. Remember, rain

is not right for her. Exposure
to the elements breaks down
a doll's resistance. Wait

until storms abate before leaving
with your doll. Time means nothing
to her. She will wonder

about rain, about everything
trains bring. Tree flowers drape
light strands like spider babies

in soft wind. Dolls are restless
on their feet all day, listening
for helicopters. They gather

on roads after rainfall to smell
the concrete getting wet,
the newly soaked pavement almost

drunk after a dry spell. Dolls
on boats head for rocks
in high winds. How many times

they wished the boat could reverse,
but before motors were invented,
everyone jumped ship. Each day,

supermarket racks sport headlines—
dolls gone sour, dolls born with beards,
hair grown with snakes, Medusa-like.

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Copyright © 2019 Margo Taft Stever All rights reserved
from Ghost Moose
Kattywompus Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission