written by Helen Harrison
They call me dolly-day-dream;
a porcelain face staring out with
painted eyes and red round cheeks.
Sat rigid like laid out crockery, with
cracks and chips turned the other way,
inoffensive florals part of the display.
I watch sandwich crumbs pass swiftly,
water poured via teapots and jugs,
cups to faces before moving on.
Soon it’s over- I’m left staring, blank.