The Man Who Makes the Dollhouses

The man who makes the dollhouses

Knows how creepy that is

He goes to the post office

And notices the people in line

Whispering about him

But then again

Post offices are more for whispering

Than mail

When he gets home

His wife is baking bread

And he kisses her on the cheek

While she checks the recipe

Even though

She’s baked bread a thousand times

Since they got married

He retires to the garage

Where he makes the little houses

And settles on a color

For the bedroom

On the third floor

The thing about dollhouses

That’s always struck him as unusual

Is that nobody ever wants a house

That looks like something

People could actually live in

Not something life-size

But something plain

Simple

Not too extravagant

No little girl wants to live

In a raised ranch

With one bathroom

And a conventional roof

Until she gets old enough

To understand

How practical that is

No little girl

Wants an affordable house

When she’s picking something out

For her dolls

On the other side of the garage
Behind the tarp

That covers a motorcycle

He bought

During his second mid-life crisis

There sits--

A house

A simple house

One with only one bedroom

And one bath

And an open floor plan

Connecting the living room

To the kitchen and dining area

It looked like the first house

He and his first wife lived in

Just like it

She was a woman

Who dreamed of big houses

And when it became obvious

That all his potential as an architect

Was only going to amount

To the occasional job here or there

(Mostly because of his odd demeanor)

She left him for a man

With a much bigger piggy bank

And a penchant for dumping his wives

After the second or third wrinkle

When her third wrinkle appeared

She was discarded like all the others

And it was reported to him

By her older brother

That she had taken her life

In some quiet way

And would the man who makes the dollhouses

Like to attend the funeral?

At that time

He was already remarried

And his new wife was expecting a child

Who would never arrive

So he politely declined

But offered his condolences

A year after that

He started building a miniature version
Of the house
He shared with his first wife

It wasn’t a particularly happy house

So he wasn’t sure why he felt so compelled

To recreate it

They’d had a nice time together

Living there

And then when it ended

It ended badly

And with a yawn

So he felt no urge

To relive that period of his life

And yet he built it

And purchased two dolls

One that looked like him

And one that looked like her

To the best of his recollection
Of course

After all, he could barely remember her

And he had never kept any photos they took
While they were together

But the house he could remember vividly

As though he was still living there

Probably just a quality

Of his mind

When he deposited the doll

That looked like her

Into the little house

He felt a great deal of satisfaction

And though he’d never admit it

He felt an even greater pleasure

Moving his doll

Into a larger dollhouse

And then another

And then another

Always traipsing though each model

Having imagined dalliances

With other dolls

Before selling them off

To little girls

All over the county

Every so often

He’d go behind the tarp

And see how his original doll was doing

And he was glad to see

She hadn’t moved

That she was still living there

Confined

Dreaming, probably

If dolls do dream

Dreaming

Of a second

Or a third

Floor