We don't fly there; she says,
never show your third hand; she says,
only got two, I say,
she just laughs and
Tables piled with crusty sweet rigglers,
dancing toys, whistlers, twirlers;
boring stuff Ma likes:
fabric, ceramic, wood,
bead-work veils and twinklies;
doh-girls and -guys,
standing with carved trays of pastries, meat,
spirits in tiny glasses.
Ma doesn't buy me 'em,
but Boson showed me,
you can tickle the doh-folk,
they'll shake and dance,
we catch goodies on the fall-down.
Boson and me,
we saw one of the hop-boys,
flash and handsome, gold ear stud too,
scrub a doh-boy clean,
shining forehead empty as a licked plate,
dropped like an egg sack, yellow and leaky,
we grabbed dusty sweets and scattered,
hop boy disappeared laughing.
Ma says doh-folk ain't real,
can't talk, can't sex, sure can't fly,
but I saw a doh-girl looking
when she said that, -girl looked sad.
I see Ma dicker with the baker,
she's buying a doh-girl,
what for, I say, help out at the Station,
she says, look after you, too,
doh-girl look like nothing,
I lean up and whisper
"I won't tickle."