The Hall Table Guest

There was a doll beside the phone,

where letters sometimes went,

its painted smile, a brittle bone,

its glassy gaze unbent.

My mother kept it clean and neat,

a fixture on the hall table,

her small domestic, sweet

and yet, it made me fable

of other things, of watchful eyes,

that never slept or blinked,

a silent, childhood surprise

of something un-distinct.

It didn't move, it didn't speak,

but something in its stare,

made childhood feel a little bleak,

a constant, painted care.

I learned it wasn't common fare

for every house to keep,

a static watcher, always there,

while all the real folks sleep.