Barbie’s Praise

You are still that old doll full of sores.

Somebody forgot to wash your face
from remainings of chalk or watercolour,
and maybe deeds of unconsciousness
are your scars of marker and scissors.

Nobody came with a remedy against dust
and first, the wise flecks of dust,
later on the shout of the disuse
are an evergreen malaise,
an apathy that savagely abandons you
at the very back of the shelf.

You are still that doll who wished to be articulated
and be able to go.