In the Attic of Grandma's House by Whitney Osburn

In the Attic of Grandma’s House By Whitney Osburn

 In no light at all, in a bunch of dust,

On nothing but wood, and dust on boxes.
On top of many headers and boards,
Like a toddler sitting playing around,
A little girl sits on the ground.
Opening boxes and looking around.
Holding old small dolls up to the light,
Just to see what everyone looked like.

Near her, was a pile of doll heads that

Had been ripped off every single old doll,
A pile of naked Barbie dolls lay
In the corner, beside dusty old
Curtain that cover the only window
In the whole attic, it was dark and scary.
 
The young girl just sat there, like it was ok.
She played with old toys for almost the whole day.
Every box got opened, and shut back up.
She sings while she dusts some dust off a dolls
Thin curly ruined plastic blondish hair,
She pulls the old doll close to her body,
And gives it a hug bigger than the ones she gives you.

She comes out of the attic, dressed in old

Clothing you wore in high school, your dresses,
Prom, and summer dresses, she pretends to be
You, a spitting image is seen through her.

She walks to a mirror in the attic,

Dust the dust away, and smiles into
The mirror, making a big kissy face,
She wears old pearls, she found in a box.
This attic has stories, so many were lost.
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In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

In the Basement of the Goodwill Store

By Ted Kooser b. 1939 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.