When I was three,

I fell in love with a female showroom dummy,

which stood with two others on the first floor

of a major department store.

She was wearing a wig and dark glasses,

but I didn’t mind at all

that she was bald and had no eyes,

for she was fun and up for a laugh,

hiding me under her dress

as Mum went round in a panic

wondering where it was I’d got to,

and she didn’t flinch –

when, first, I clasped my arms around her leg

(allowing me to gently caress

my cheek against the smooth plastic flesh

that felt so ice-cool and fresh)

and, then, when a member of staff

looked up her dress.

My mum, though, wasn’t impressed,

and didn’t seem to understand

when I tried to express,

as she dragged me along,

how much I wanted to bring the model home.

How could she understand a three-year-old

who’d only just learned to speak in sentences

and couldn’t express himself much more

than the showroom dummies

who couldn’t speak at all?

And when I looked behind me from the door,

my showroom dummy had her hands stretched out

as if to take me back,

but couldn’t come to my rescue

for both her feet were nailed to the floor.

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