terrypetersen

Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven. Henry Ward Beecher

THE DOLL HOUSE

Her pink shirt stained
with chocolate birthday cake,
the little girl moves miniature figures
through her new doll house.

The adults talk.
Their voices rise and fall with
grunts and whines.

That child’s daddy needs a new attitude.

Ray should knock off the bourbon
before his liver turns into a sponge
like the one in Nita’s filthy sink.

What’s the point of a 25-cent coupon
on four cans of tuna?

High-priced gas in a ’96 Chevy is
like putting diamonds
into a broken goddamn gumball ring.

The little girl pauses,
interrupted by dull laughter, a cynic’s applause,
as she prepares her doll family for a special trip
under the stairway,
where purple sand and white sea wait,
with a sky where the only clouds permitted
are made of ice cream and marshmallows,
and no one over the age of six may enter.