The mannequins are only playing dead

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at night
the mannequins leave
    their glass prisons

         and hunt owls
   in the forest

***

sometimes they dance
      a slo-mo tarantella
            in a clearing

bone-white
      in the moonlight

***

in the morning
back behind glass
their blank looks
give nothing away

behind them
          tills open with a yawn
          and close with a sigh

***

This poem was constructed from several tweets on the theme of mannequins. I tweeted the picture (very much a part of the poem) about a week ago.

I’ve got quite a lot of material on this theme. Further poems are planned, as well as a collaboration with an artist.

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