I make porcelain dolls:
dresses, frills,
smiles.
Fingertips drag longingly
through their ringlets.
Children traipse by,
complain.
Two green eyes
follow them -
hands grasp the
empty air.
"Peter," Wendy sighs, "everyone
grows old."
Reflection -
Wrinkles across a sunken face,
scrubbing.
The dolls stare.
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