If life weren't so unmanagable, 

I wouldn't need a dollhouse.

A stunning white shingled dollhouse

green shuttered and safe.

The residents are predictable 

because they never change.

Like pictures in a frame

they remain stationary, the same.

There is no cruelty or illness

and the dolls never age.

Their climate is unthreated.

Clean air blows through

 open shutters and doors.

If you peer in, you can see

a man and woman living

in harmony. Two artists 

creating imaginary worlds 

to stage;

stories from another age.

Two young girls run up the stairs,

while the living room,

with piano, couch and chair

and two elderly people

sitting there. 

Sandwiches and fruit

are on the table to eat,

framed art is displayed thoughtfully.

In the bathroom next door,

a daughter tends to her mother.

The bathing towels 

will help her dry.

Upstairs, a bedroom 

with desk, books and chair.

A woman sits on the bed,

her small dog rests her head.

The other rooms

are for her brothers to stay.

The attic is filled with yesterday.

Memories of husband, brother, father.

All dead.

I need my dollhouse 

to meet the day, 

to forget surging climate change.

To ignore events I can not change.

To freeze time although I age.