We were so poor.
We had no toys.
Only paper dolls
We drew and cut.

The panty-line,
The grey pubis in a room with candlelight,
The pen-rosied bosom.

Our paper dolls had money:
Pot roasts, turkey garnished with thyme,
An easy bake oven.
Things we coveted on our old round screen Philco,
Drawn new quality Magnovox
With stereo sound.

Now our torn dolls sit naked,
Used in a junk drawer.
As our worth accrued,
This paper depreciated.
Only until today when Grissel the rat-broker
Tempted me to draw my own Merill dollars.

A drunken return to these dolls
With the finest dresses and shoes,
Drawing again with my familiar friend, poverty:
My best blood.