Dollhouses & War

The first attempt at proper poetry and the next and the next.
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1. The Dollhouse

 

#ONE

 

My house is a dollhouse.

Old because it is worn,

And worn because it is old.

 

There is a crack on the front door

Near the bottom

A spider’s dance or a lightning strike

From where my dad got clumsy and kicked it.

 

Some of the windows don’t have latches since they fell off one day.

Now they live in the larder cupboard

Living out their freedom in the darkness.

Instead there’s a contraption of rope trapped

On each window to keep us safe and dry.

 

There’s a tea stain on the ceiling,

Not a tea stain but a rain stain,

From where the gutter shattered under the snow

And cried rain into the roof.

 

Sometimes the water decides it summer

And stays cold no matter how hard we try.

The boiler is having a tantrum

It is maybe older than my dollhouse

And it likes it when we tell it why.

 

There’s a kettle that’s given up

It doesn’t boil unless it’s poised in just the right way

70 degrees is what it likes

Otherwise it just won’t cooperate.

 

My house is a dollhouse

It’s that way because many have played in it.

It may be bigger than a dollhouse

A house really,

But we are the dolls that live inside it.

 

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