Doll House

When I was old enough to not eat

the furniture, I was given a used

doll house.  The half house, sliced

down the middle, all rooms in profile,

not a place to get some privacy,

even the bathroom lay bare.  My house

was a shoddy piece with wall decorations

lacquered in and peeling.  I remember faded

blue and the flat kitchen appliances.

I lost interest.

The furniture was plastic and limited.

I could not populate the house and toppled

the jute topiaries my father glued to the base.

After our trip to St. Augustine, I finally moved in,

filled the rooms with stones and coquina

that crumbled when we slammed doors.

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