Sitting on a plastic table
At a garage sale
The dust drapes an angelic figurine
The soot tickles her blank eyes
They stare at you
They stare at everything
They stare at nothing
Her marble dress
Is French blue
Faded, warm to the look
Cold to the touch
So deceiving
But not meant to be
The pink lips
Spotted with white
Are worn
So old
That they've curved down into a frown
Wishing
Someone would touch her
Consider laying a quarter on the plastic,
And taking her home

It's every girl's wish, you know
To
Be loved
By someone
Anyone, really
Just as long
As they can feel
Wanted
Useful
To know they belong in a heart
Or
Even
On a mantle