imitation 6 by Lauren Jernberg

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.