The woman pushes her babies

five at a time in the well-used buggy,

bag lady to the untrained eye;

but the babies are dolls we see

all cock a hoop jammed in

jostling for air and space. 

 

No one passes the time with her,

and she seems unaware,

too rigidly focussed to notice others'

consternation or disbelief.

Then there is our relief

of walking past, putting distance

 

between her and the challenge

that one might create by saying:

"I love your babies - what are their names?"

to make her feel wanted and important,

knowing somewhere inside that

she might say: "they're only dolls,"

 

and smile ruefully, making us

cling to convention and other

restrictive instincts.