Wobbling Buddha

Dirty, wobbling Buddha
I think you may have cursed me
With your eyes closed
Picking at a chronic scab
Delicately placing the detritus
Into your mouth
Ha!
You didn't think I saw you do that
Did you?
Pissed you off
Didn't I?
A wave of the hand, a well-worn expletive
And I'm dismissed

Smoking, hacking gargoyle
Glued to your grimy floor
Staring at me through tight squinted eyes
Damning each and every
Soul you've ever known
Have I been convinced
That I am exactly like you?
Or that you can send me to hell?
I think you may already have

A wave of the hand, a well-worn expletive
I'm down in the hole

But one thing must be said:
You have a wonderful collection of dolls
Every peach pink pucker-lipped face
Stares blindly
Lined up in rows on shelves
In an unused room
Their feet scuffed with black tar
Little silk dresses torn
Or naked
Nude plastic
Unashamed toys
Five gates, uncaring
Five doors, barred forever
Heads filled with air

Still they feel more than you
Still they feel more than you
Do