Poem: "The Doll House"

minor_architect

When the witch’s house was foreclosed upon,
she went quietly.
She packed her black dresses and her brooms.
She closed and latched the oven door.
She dug up the belladonna, the foxglove, the hemlock
and carried them away in pots.

Of course, with the housing market
in such dire straits,
ordinary buyers were hard to find.
So the bank’s real estate broker showed the house,
in person or in photos mailed and emailed all over,
to anyone who might be enticed to make an offer.
Mostly that meant showing it to other bankers
and brokers and investors looking for bargains.

“Hmm,” they would say, “it’s not a bad place …
rather small, though.” Or “It’s quaint, don’t you think?”
That sort of thing.

Then they’d see the last room.
“Oh my! What an amazing collection of dolls. Look –
little three-piece suits and business dresses and even briefcases!”
That’s what they’d say, and then they’d ask,
“But what are these still doing here?
They must be worth a lot of money.”
“I guess the previous tenant must have left them,”
the bank’s broker would say, then prompt,
“Would you like to make an offer on the property?”

But no matter what they said that day,
none of them were ever heard from again,
and the house stood empty…

… except for the dolls.