Furrows of insulation,
Heaps of disintegrated photographs,
Cards for many occasions.
Snakes resembling many moccasins.
Cards decorated with colorful balloons
Even playing cards,
Faded by time,
Not by the sand in the hourglass.
Originally intended to be remembered, having escaped their boxed fate,
Landed face down.
Cards depicting empty forests and singing swallows,
Lending their ears
To to a simpler time.
The faint smell of tree sap
The stickiness of maple syrup, flowing like landslides over pancake islands,
Never enough napkins to contain the motivated molasses.
Only the forks can save them now.
All of these individual premonitions,
Of the few cards that landed face down,
Admonished all at once
When they were covered with a storage bin full to bursting.
A bin filled with even more things,
Even some other cards,
Honoring other occasions
The essential summation of this and so many other attics.
Which is in its base form is flat, mostly unexplored land
Consisting mostly of termites
& pictures of windmills.
& pictures of windmills.
Little plots of land above the rigid cinder-blocks
Vertical beams that breathe inside the sanctity of the walls.
Ribs encasing the beating heart of the standing house.
Colonies of silverfish
Survive and maintain
This bustling canopy.
These empty farms.
Scarcely lit terra firma rich with textiles and
Bursting at the seams
With stuff that might be from inside a couch cushion
Cornucopias of wrapping paper and
Wade like schools of feeding fish,
Just below the surface,
Bouncing like ping-pong balls between ceiling joints,
Out of reach until at least next season.
Time practically stands still up in the attic,
A certain stairway is unveiled,
Flooding the ample crevice with more
The ringing of doorbells,
An uproar from the legions of fans below,
Men and women,
Lifeboats and hard candy,
Waving handkerchiefs and breaking bottles in adoration,
At this time,
Only this time,
Celebrating civility and stability in unison.
And weeping when the door closes,
And weeping when the pictures stop.
Matted stuffed animals posturing to become relevant again,
Toys with missing pieces exists only as foliage at this juncture,
A select few other species,
With nothing left to do but
Read many ancient brochures;
With glasses slid down to the tips of their noses,
Like inquiring grandparents, struggling to see in the dark.
While wondering what the unopened harmonicas that are curiously buried
Deeper than any of these other treasures,
In cardboard boxes that suspiciously resemble coffins
Could possibly sound like.
This precarious collective consists of neither
Flora nor fauna,
(With the exception of the silverfish)
They only chew up what is left,
Of what is left.
Obliterating all traces of sugar
Recessing confessions and an incalculable number of invitations,
Filing them into oblivion .
All the contents of the attic,
All the love letters,
Fireworks packed away for nights teeming with expectation;
Nights never saw those lights,
Nights never read those words,
But still they relished in the explosive manner of how the people celebrated.
Dreaming of dancing weather-vanes,
That pirouette just out of arms reach,
Spiraling just beyond hindsight,
In plain sight.
Game cartridges slated for personal use,
Once bright with
Color and sound,
Are chipped and covered with a thick coat of dust,
As opposed as to a
Coat of arms.
The machines fighting battles they never imagined,
[Saloons doors all closed now, as the town looks on with squinted eyes]
Staring at a card from the
“Thinking of you” section of the grocery store;
Equipped with faded roses on the front
Equipped with faded eyes, ready to bury so many opponents after this one.
Even from a distance.
[Pistols still holstered]
Thorns readily exposed.
And now a whistling can be heard…