Sunny balcony

my neighbours have a table and two chairs on their roof that is very short and quite neat but has a slope and window doorway, I brain flickered that they had a child but they don’t… they’re still a good dash of crazy

the two dolls next door live on their roof, in some
alternate orbit, I’m not sure if they’ve picked the
planet yet, it might be far away, they’re taking long
because they’re blind, they can’t
see the slope
the mild slide out into the world, but theirs is flat,
they draw their life on the roof, sometimes with
a green banana, a bowl of salad, dressed,
or water on the chair, in a crumpled towel, it’s like a box telly
screen, I check it almost every day, it’s an adult’s real-life
dollhouse, outside the kitchen, and
through the blinds of my stamp bedroom
sometimes the sun streams in, others it doesn’t
want to know even a glittering suburban existence and
they have a thing, with glassy brown eyes, an image of
sharp things, it has cut its dimples and talks to the chimney in
salty cascades, I wonder if they know it’s being
tipped off the ceiling top every day, daddy’s piggybacking ‘tween the
big rippling valleys life and death, twisted like the flowers they pluck
from the village green, to dry and cremate in a flower press
book, and will roll out of the window like parents out of bed in the
night, out of the place they belong,
living on the sunny balcony, dancing on the edge of sanity, gliding idle
with their child