A red truck pulls up to a worn house in the Dominican Republic.
Guaranteed to see a typical rural home the tourists drift inside.
A girl sweeps the dirt outside the house-
built by her grandfather, now shuffled through by a stream of strangers.
The house is sparsely furnished and clean for the glaring eyes.
On a shelf in every room is a faceless doll,
the dolls are looking for the lost warmth of human eyes.
Sober gazes reflect off the whitewashed walls.
Outside the family members wait and watch.
An older man sits in a chair under a rosewood tree in the shade.
The wind carries the aroma of fresh baked bread through the trees,
a woman tends to an outdoor oven where dough is baking.
In the distance, church bells are ringing for noonday Mass.
The sightseers wonder aloud why there are no faces on the dolls
as they fish for dollar bills to drop in an empty jar by the gate.
Back on the truck they face each other with blank stares.
Published in Literary Orphans