Why I am not a Royal Doultan figurine

sleek blond hair and rimmed white hat

a sculpted dress of dainty blue

my tiny hands, a rose bouquet

a face so pure and true—

But everyday I'd be trapped

in this heavy stifling gown

in my 90 year old dad's apartment

80 degrees in the sun.  

Sweltering in the walnut cabinet,

I could not lift my hand to wipe

my perfect beaded brow.

So bored with my demurity,

I 'd call to next shelf Doultons,

How was the catch? to fisherman

in yellow anorak, his stiff net at his feet.   

He'd wink and flirt and wish

he could toss me a fresh trout.

How’s business today? to sad

balloon lady, hawking inflated joy.

She'd smirk and snarl and wish

she could flip me the bird.

I'd plot to un-fairmaiden myself,

with dreams of moving limbs

a change of clothes, a magical

morph from porcelain

to plastic skin.

In groovy flowered pants and scarf

with matching groovy shoes,

I'd bend into my Barbie car,

drive to the door ajar.

Foot on pedal, hand on wheel,

hair blowing free behind me

I'd leave behind those figurines

hand waving bye above me.

________________________

NaPoWriMo Prompt: Today, we challenge you to write a similar kind of self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.