I see figures, strange figures.
The puddle of mud
In front of the dollhouse window
Was its own self-portrait.
A miniature family of art critics
On little electric scooters
Slams through it,
Sending a drop of mud
Into the daughter’s dainty teacup.
She takes a sip and sighs.
I saw all this through the front façade.
At 1/10th scale,
The sky was blue,
Blue jays were screaming.
A little mud settled on a doll’s lips.
Or was it blue clay?
Ever since I’ve met you,
I’ve swept you off my feet.
I’ve used a toy broom.
The one children also paint with.
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