mother chops the carrots
on lycra worktop
surfaces shine as if they've never been touched

her hand
moves in the same motion
that it has been for forty-seven years
on a plastic joint

her skin
dull and rubbery
aged like a doll,
subject to damp and rot

her smile
plastered on and painted
like a decent woman's should
forever smiling

to her left, a transistor radio plays
the same song
looping for almost half a century
the sound warped by worn batteries

baby bonnie
sits on the floor
her head turns just a little too far
one blue eye droops

her coos
are non-existent
for a child of her age
the only noises are her rusted joints

the television
shows only white noise
and hisses in the back
cables chewed by mice

it lets off sparks
that bounce off bonnie's head
and melt her pretty plastic flesh
mother stirs not

mother waits
for father to return from work
when in reality
he has never existed

sweet bonnie
her glass eyes roll on the floor
flames spread down
her little arms

face disfigured
but the radio plays on

ー

mother chops the carrots
on lycra worktop