House of Ragged Dolls

Years pass and the floorboards in the attic

creak. A memory of an untouched doll house,

a miniature carousel, a stuffed elephant

with a black plastic eye hanging on

by its last two threads. Dust so

thick it chokes, floats –

at sunset the day’s last beams

shoot straight through the round window

that resembles a clock with no hands,

just a tic-tac-toe grid from the

freshly painted white grilles.

If she knocks, I’ll open the door

and let down the ladder, sure.

She’ll sneeze and feel hair in

the back of her throat she didn’t

know she had.