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Flea Markets

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Dolls never die.
They watch.
Behind glassy eyes and brittle lashes
Beneath blushing cheeks and
Fragile porcelain
Is a tired soul.
They perch, dainty, above
Old records and creaky kitchen chairs
And hold their breath
Against the
Old, hot air of the flea markets
Because even though their pretty dresses are
faded
And their shoes are
missing
They can still drink tea
And play house
And give
kisses
And sometimes
Little girls come to flea markets.



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