He's found a mannikin that was skipped
on one of his walks where he stares at dogs,
it's male, but it'll do, can't afford a blow-up.
He's in the shed with it, shadows from neighbours
gardens are curling over the fence trying to look in,
It's lying there like a Christ, he folds its arms down.
He has an old bra, ties it round its chest
paints the scuff on the leg with Hint of Peach
washes the brush, spins it dry, a craftsman.
Peers through a cobwebbed window
getting dark, switches on the light,
marks the line between the thighs.