Mannequins on Smoke Break
Merrill Oliver Douglas
Headless, soap-white, nude,
they cluster on the loading dock
behind Old Navy. Don’t they get bored
with their breasts, all formed in the same mold?
Here one stands with hands on hips,
as if she’s rendered a decision.
One takes a first slow step toward the stairs.
A third, perhaps annoyed at the sight
of the dumpster parked close by,
has turned from the others and fumes
near the tan wall. Not one scar
among them, not one lick of fading summer
strap mark or pucker of doubt on a thigh.