My Matty Mattel Talking Doll

While meditating earlier today,

a flashback leapt

clear for me to assay,

those ever receding

early boyhood daze,

now subsumed within fifty,

plus nine shades of gray

blissfully innocent naivety,

(though blessed) no way

would, aye desire to turn back

the hands of father time (hypothetically),

where unstructured play

regularly with older sister

(thirteen plus months

my senior) predominantly

slicing, sliding, and slipping

stockinged feet skittering

across slippery basement floor,

this then soul full

skinny thing bellowed hooray.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I'm Matty Mattel; I got hurt;

Can you go out?"

Those words uttered

by the very first

pull-string talking doll

Mattel did tout

circa nineteen sixty

revolutionizing the birth

of quasi simulated (lifelike) toys,

and made of common

materials found scout

ting around the house simply comprising

hard vinyl (i.e. pseudo

plaster of Paris) head he did flout

with remaining body

stuffed with padding,

a definite no

no (chew toy) when Fido about.

Actually that pooch,

would be Georgie to you,

(a hybrid Boxer Dalmatian)

with docked tail

my young parents acquired,

when as a newborn,

aye did inconsolably wail

though recollection of such memory

fifty nine years ago tis of no avail

yet, a resumption of meditation,

sans lightness of being

(analogous trancelike state),

that doth prevail

replaying silent film preceding,

when psyche seem so frail

plummeting into emotional abyss

the nadir i.e. anorexia nervosa

pleading return to nostalgic boyhood

decrying change hide didst bewail!