Baby Doll

Baby Doll

Baby doll sleeps with her eyes so clear.
Painted dreams on the inside of unpainted,
plastic eyelids. Shake her; watch them flutter.
Baby doll's not rubber.
Always wanted rubber on her.
Always wanted to be full, though,
like the water babies, babies.
But don't want nothing in her tummy, baby.
Fill her up, let her sink like a stone.
Four walls around baby doll,
but no home of her own.
One wall a mad patchwork,
one an exacting plaid.
One with poisonous floral,
and one lurid, fuzzy red.
Is she like one of those dolls
from an "adult boutique", baby?
Shining eyes stuck to sunrise,
mouth gaping open in surprise?
But no, she's past surprise;
past shock and scandal,
past sentimentality, maybe.
At the end of the day, her mouth's a tight smile.
She's cool to the touch and her limbs aren't jointed.
Everybody loves the baby doll, baby. You said you do.
You said the words.
So they must be true.