On the shelf
she was feeble.
She took the fall
and cracked her neck.
Once a doll,
turned to pieces
on the floor.

In the hospital,
on the table,
all tied up
with Shirley Temple.
Mama bade them
fix her,
this Daisy of her youth.

They stitched her up
and sent her home,
back to a no-good son.
Mama had always loved
dear Daisy more,
for she was much more quiet.

When mama died,
the doll was tossed,
stuffed in with the ice skates
and the sweaters.
Boxes bumped
in the trunk,
as he sped down the road.

In the bin,
suffocated,
was poor, donated Daisy.
Abandoned in kitsch,
with one dollar cost,
she flopped on her side
to lament.

But the shopping cart came
and a scrutiny with it,
under the appraiser’s keen eye.
He could not see mama
in her face,
but he knew well
the nature of her worth.

In the glass case,
beyond all the people,
dressed in lilac anew.
Daisy sits still waiting,
for all that has gone by.

© Katherine Steffeter