A Dollhouse

Fred Bassett

It covers her grave
in the Lanett Cemetery.
Her father built it
with red brick walls,
a green-singled roof,
windows with white awnings,
a solid door with a lock.
Perhaps the mother
chose the toys
both old and new.

I kneel at the window.
There’s a framed photo
of the child against one wall,
a doll in a brass cradle,
another on a tricycle,
two more beside a tea set
on the gray granite slab,
engraved with name,
dates and four words
from her last birthday:
Me want it now.

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