Poem for the Glassy Eyes of a Doll

The cartographer of rooms maps his way through a labyrinth
of plaster and repurposed floors, smiling frame jobs and flea market 
throws, all manner of seating and cushion; quite the thing to behold, 
a formation of fire pokers which at first glace appear gathered for
warring parties, and upstairs above the clumsy creak, a writing desk
of wobbly scribbles.  The faded ink of this poem for the glassy eyes
of a doll, made in the image by makers on the make, object of 
childly affections.  Knotted hair combed out and braided, secrets
exchanged, you can see the beginnings of the gossip parlour.
Dressed in nature's spun mimicry, an inanimate gaze which fires
cruelest imagination.  If anything has begun, it must be that.
First canning to empty pantry.