He put her
on the bed, the sofa,
in his play chest, the floor.
He said she was his mother,
putting her roughly to his mouth,
gave big wet kisses,
squeezing her in his dreams.
His friends came to his room
and laughed at him,
"Boys don't play dolls,
boys play balls."
He put her under cover,
went to her secretly
only at nights, alone,
ashamed that he needed her.
Then the real ones came
with hair, sweat,
hungry eyes,
smothering lips,
arms wound tight his middle.
She now stayed in the closet
away from his eyes,
away from his world.
But once in a while
between cracks of broken promises
he would come for her.
In this fashion
the endless song played
long drawn out notes
filled empty space.
Until one day
graying, divorced, separated,
broken up with his new girl friend,
he found the note in his closet:
___The doll is not waiting.
___She will not be back.
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