Slaughter on Fifth Avenue 

Purple gown, veil pulled
over unblinking black eyes,
my doll slaughters the other
Fifth Avenue dolls in our
small-town Southern version
of Fifth Avenue when friends
come by to play.

Molly Pink Cheeks.
Gone!

Betsy Wetsy, Rosie SuckSuck
and Toni with her new perm.
On their way to Dolly Heaven!

No challenge for Mata Hari,
killer's heart hard in her small
plastic chest.

Screams, moans and Betsy's accidents
are all covered by my rug and the long
hard scratch across my treasured 78.

Mother never knows she harbors
a killer upstairs or that bookies,
speeding cabs and indifferent onlookers
trample her ceiling unseen.

Lemonade rushing into glasses distracts.
We tear down the steps, bodies left behind
for the pyre we'll light after our bellies
are plump with lemon and mother's infamous
Sugar Drops.
                          

Pris Campbell
©2012

PoetsArtists 2012

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