The Attic

8/2/24

I told dad the dream of the house in our attic.
He said it was a rite that was bound to happen.
Ten years to the day have I kept it in.
Past a latter, through a grate, cat-eyes seen
little tufts of dust flowing through the creaks.

Where do they go? Do they ever really leave?

I hate when we got rid of the old T.V..
Gone went the box with half the screen.
No more tapes to DVR, instead now we stream,
but why must I long so far back for those dreams?
Where the dust in the attic is finally seen —
safe, contained, never feigning to change —
until defeat takes place of all the days
and the creaks grow slim beacons of light,
peeking, posthaste, calling out for my name.
I close my eyes and turn away, and hope,
hope one day the attic comes to me.