maybe we’re all just paper
cut-out dolls
living in cardboard folders
slipped in and out
from our manufactured homes
with painted gardens on pink folder walls

brought out now and again
to stand on the cardboard platforms
beneath our feet
and moved around by eager hands

at their every mood-swing, our owners
undressing and re-dressing us
folding the paper tabs of outfits over our
shoulders, that roughly handled, break

designs and colours tried out on us
in mix and match fashion
accessories imposed
purses and parasols

our faces, hair colors and styles
providing variety in the roster

and the players march us up and down
in fake settings, and talk for us
to make up their stories of our lives
park us in our lingerie in kleenex beds
forget us sometimes
when other passions
or growing up take over
to replace the pleasure we gave
with other dolls, new lines

then leaving us in our pink folder homes
ripped now, at the corners, out of style
the hours of smiles we caused, mere history

and only come to life again
when fresh hands take us out

03/30/2004