Junkyard Dolly 

This poem’s namesake, found by the author at the Amissville landfill.

I feel like a junkyard dolly.

My only friend is gone, gone, gone.

He ran ‘way with a circus of Celts,

Never to come home again.

So they tossed me away,

For no reason at all.

Left out in the rain to chill and die

For no reason at all, at all, at all.

Without my friend, who ran and ran,

Away to the Carnival’s call.

I’m sad, sad, sad

For his hand, hand, hand

But he’s gone, gone, gone,

To a Big Top somewhere

With the roar of a lion

And rusty brass band.

I sat on the dung heap,

So still, so still,

Never a question, a sound.

Giving a smile whenever I could,

Waiting for his return.

But he’s gone, gone, gone,

To a Big Top somewhere

Hearing the roar and the band.

My pinafore kept clean, my shoes out of mud,

My curls curling best as I could, battered, not broken

On top of the past,

Watching for his return.

Too ugly, too old, too out-of-date,

Unneeded in The Land of Now.

I sit so still, so still,

A smile when I can,

Waiting for him to return,

From the Celtic circus, the roar, and the band.

— Char Duguid

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