The
Attic By: Lauren Jernberg
Cold
and dark the air is thick. Shivers run
Down
your spine. You never liked this place.
It
has a weird feeling like someone is
Watching
you. You jump at every sound like
A
rabbit on a sugar high. Anxious
And
paranoid of everything. You wait
For
someone to grab you from behind.
Thinking
of better things you calm down.
Realizing
how gross it is up here.
The
dust lies on top of everything like
Layers
of skin. You peal it back and there
Is
more. You hear the pitter patter of mice
And
see everything that is left behind.
The
doll house from your child hood sits in
A
corner. Memories flood your mind.
You
remember all the good times you had.
Playing in your bedroom with your dolls,
You
and your friends playing house with dolls.
But
all that is over now. You are
Throwing
things out but what needs to go?
You
see your dads old work bench and remember
How
he used to pick you up and spin you
Around.
He would ask “what do you want to
Make
today?” the answer hung in the air
As
you continue to search. There is a costume box
And
Christmas decorations but nothing
You
would ever throw out. The floor creaks
Underneath
you as you walk to the window.
Children
run through the yard and you hope they
Appreciate
what they have. It will be gone too soon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In
the Basement of the Goodwill Store by: Ted Kooser
In
musty light, in the thin brown air
of
damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath
long rows of sharp footfalls
like
nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying
on glasses, lifting each pair
from
the box like a glittering fish
and
holding it up to the light
of
a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of
enameled pans as white as skulls
looms
in the catacomb shadows,
and
old toilets with dry red throats
cough
up bouquets of curtain rods.
You’ve
seen him somewhere before.
He’s
wearing the green leisure suit
you
threw out with the garbage,
and
the Christmas tie you hated,
and
the ventilated wingtip shoes
you
found in your father’s closet
and
wore as a joke. And the glasses
which
finally fit him, through which
he
looks to see you looking back—
two
mirrors which flash and glance—
are
those through which one day
you
too will look down over the years,
when
you have grown old and thin
and
no longer particular,
and
the things you once thought
you
were rid of forever
have
taken you back in their arms.
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