the lost doll

you see the doll
floating aimlessly
in the brown muck
of the lake, too dismal to capture
the whiteness of any clouds,
or blue. it sways among
the cans, and cigarettes,
the tennis balls. oil slicks,
and gin bottles.
the eyes of the baby,
belly up as smooth as a pink
bean, are impossible
turquoise. inhumanly
beautiful.
one arm is to the side,
unswimming, one missing.
the legs are bent towards
one another with fat
disjointed knees. the hair,
which is not hair at all,
is blonde like thin rope,
stretched out as if by
electricity.
who knows when the doll
was tossed in, discarded,
or whether the doll was
loved and held in the arms
of some small child
who is now searching
everywhere for her.
the doll is not human,
but you know so many like her.