A doll hangs from the claw
of some quarter machine
that shimmers and leers at you;
it chokes the cotton
from brown paws in the vitrine
of childish hopes
of the carnage of kids and crowns
or the odds of success.
There hangs a doll from a machine
that pulls and screams cries and lies—
a glazy Tantalus on the glass
and in the glass,
my dream.
This was originally published in Fall 2017 edition of The Helix.
