Dreamhouse

Are we ever surprised at the moment naked Barbie
turns in her art deco chair to where equally naked Ken
sulks at the window and asks him, “What’s in your dreamhouse?”
as the plastic cat rolls its flanks on the plush acrylic carpet
that neither Barbie nor Ken enjoy because their toes are fused?

Ken tries, as he always does, to think of a response,
but his thoughts are too incongruous with the moment.
It would not do to answer her question with a question
when she’s propped herself up like that, leaned back,
and cocked her head sharply to the side.

Ken paces the carpet stiffly with unbending knees.
She toys with him this way, that cold, smooth beauty.
How do other people live? He wants to know.
He wants to wear a giant donkey head,
lay down his dark calla lily ears alone in a bower
or with someone who wants to be there.