Polly Pocket

In the corner of the cold basement, hidden behind
the futon, I pop open my Goodwill treasure—
Polly’s heart-shaped home. The plastic stairs slide

into place. Her purple bed, always perfectly made.
Pink & yellow kitchen with its plastic pots & pans.
The gate, near the plastic stones & grass. Her baby

brother who never poops or pouts. Her parents
never whisper-shout about overdue bills
by lamplight. Her father never quits his job,

never leaves the imprint of a wooden spoon on her behind.
Her mother never cries into a kitchen towel. Her clothes
never smell like dust from someone else’s home.

A quarter century later, a life-size Polly Pocket house
advertises for bookings on AirBNB. Even fully grown
with a home of my own, I yearn to spend a weekend wearing

Polly’s dresses, soaking in her tub, admiring my reflection
in her mirror, instead of changing diapers, chasing toddlers,
stirring mac-n-cheese. But the house is wide open,

every plastic thing exposed to the rain or snow or
heat or cold. Should I release my childhood dream,
my secret escape, or should I preserve it?

Before I can answer, the two halves of my heart
snap firmly closed & my child-self slides it toward
the dust bunnies under the futon.