Most destitute of happiness and love,
For it was a trash can.
And in that trash can,
There rested a broken and battered doll,
Which was equally as poverish
Because it was forgotten.
And all the love it had once earned
Was lost in the crumpled bits of paper
That had sunk to the bottom,
And the man towering over it
Took pity, for he knew what forgetfulness did.
He looked at it for some fair time.
It was nothing special.
Quite the contrary actually,
It was a fettered piece of dilapidated cloth,
Eaten away by ages of neglect.
And the seams at the legs and arms were torn,
Probably once held together by a child's squeeze.
And its color was faded,
Lost to ages of neglect,
And it looked altogether miserable,
Just as the man did.
He took it up and packed it away.
So the man took the tattered doll
Back to his equally poor excuse for a home.
He looked at it there,
In its new trash can,
And the seams were still torn,
Its spirit broken.
But unlike the doll, the man remembered
All the good things that a doll could be,
And he began his work.
He removed the fettered stitches
That once bound the legs,
And he tore out the arms altogether.
He hated the needle because he knew it would hurt,
But he loved it because of what it did.
He loaded that needle with the finest of thread,
And, with great care, he made certain
That the arms and the legs would be saved.
And he looked at it now,
Slightly less pitiful,
And it made him happy to know that the doll could be fixed.
He then readied the cloth, preparing it for color,
And before he knew it, the gray skin was peach.
And the wire hair, made thin by the ages,
He pressed with steam and love,
Till a bountiful stock of gray beauty
Adorned that poor thing's head.
And this he colored gold
Because it was the color of innocence,
And he looked at the doll again.
No longer forgotten, its beauty restored,
It looked as the fairest of dolls in the land,
Save for one minor detail.
The left eye had been lost,
Replaced by a patch marked with an x,
And he tore away this patch on the spot.
An eye was added, and the doll was done,
And now it was a glimmer of joy
In that poor man's trash can.
He lifted it up, and it sparkled.
And he did not keep it because he knew
That neglect would surely claim it if he did,
So he gave it to his youngest niece,
Who, being young, could love it again.
And love it she did; it was beautiful,
And she slept with that once-bedraggled princess
Every night.
And she squeezed, and she loved it,
And the doll was a doll again,
No longer a piece of trash.
But a doll it had always been,
Untouched by the troubles of flaw,
And the man knew this,
And he pondered all the things that could have led
To the dilapidation of that trash can.
At last, he concluded that it didn't matter
Because now everything was right and good.
And he cautioned himself not to worry.
He could fix his own life just the same,
Even if it was a ruined mess right now,
Because one day it would be found and mended
And loved,
Even if he had to do it all himself.
His eye glimmered just as the doll's had,
And he fell asleep.
7/31/04
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