it
might have been locked away or lost in a corner of time
one
where no-one comes to clean
or dust
and
spiders set up their web
in vain
that
kind of forgottenness
generations
of people may have passed it
in
muddy shoes and with baggy pants
dresses
mended with coarse thread
different
well worn hats
talking
about the price of bread
oil
sugar and gold
or
nothing
I'm
talking about that “self” doll
we won
at the fair by shooting
mechanical
bears
it was
purple and fluffy
though
you say you remember it
as blue
and chewable
on long
Sundays
we
would use it to keep
the sky
in its place
the
dogs at bay
the
ladybirds lively and hungry
the
coffee warm
the
pavement welcoming
our
neighbours at an arm's length
or we
would merge ours with theirs
a make
a homunculus
absorbing
our dreams
and
bellies
purple
and fluffy
blue
and chewable
and
constantly excreting balloons
and the
stuff
mountains
are made from
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