The Dollhouse
I remember back in third grade
when I went over to Valerie's house
after school to play.
Valerie's mother was so nice,
giving us milk and Twinkies.
Valerie's father was so big,
towering endlessly up into a beige ceiling.
I remember when Valerie showed me
her colonial-style dollhouse.
It had all these different colored rooms,
none of which were
beige.
It gave me the impression of actually
being larger than my own house.
I remember when Valerie self-consciously
closed her bedroom door to solicit
a forbidden kiss.
Being naughty tasted of the freedom
I imagined my parents having.
I remember when Valerie asked me
to be the daddy and I enjoyed the pretense
of being strong.
I promised Valerie (not aloud of course but to myself)
that I would always be the daddy,
forever.
It seems as though no matter how small
the dollhouse now appears,
in some timeless universe,
I am still the daddy for Valerie,
acting out our secret play
in a moment when we imagined it so.
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