a dolls life

the doll,
with her pinked skin
chipped,
her large
black eyes. glossed
in fictitious thought,
though
not a thought has entered
or left
this plastic
work of near art, ever.
the plaintive smile
is unchanging
through the years.
the tangle of wired hair
brushed and held back
by a small beret.
she never shows her age.
from garage to box,
to attic,
to this shelf at a
flea market, besides
other lost dolls, or
thrown away.
whose hands held
this faux
baby, this replica
of life.
what child grew up
and held
this thing and cried,
or cared for it,
cuddled to it in a nightmarish
night,
as if real, as if almost
life?