Lady in the Window (poem for realistic mannequin #22)

She seems pensive and the light is suggestive of late afternoon,
dusk,
and the lady in the window is still in her pajamas
like she is house bound.
A feeling like a child being punished by being sent to her room,
looking out of the window
wishing for the freedom to be outside playing
with friends
but instead alone here to contemplate
being alone and rejected.

If I were looking in from the outside
would I see a mannequin,
something made from plastic,
slightly used,
slight scratches on the body
paint, pink plastic flesh,
places,
where the careless striped her bare
too quickly,
hurling her rudely,
carelessly,
to the bottomless floor.
And now she is surplus,
thrown up on a website for the used
for the old,
offered at a discount.

I might,

and I might imagine
that blood still moved
behind the frozen Mona Lisa smile,
might imagine
that there is still warmth within
that slightly used,
slightly worn,
and plastic exterior.