The Attic

In the dim and frowzy waste Piled, the used and unwanted The out of sight and mind Books, papers, chests, chairs Broken parts of ourselves that No longer work Intending on some day never to come The necessary time to fix To heal, to make amends But the cord below Pulls at a stair that creaks With rust, the living in lighted space Too hard to make the venture Into darkness, worth the hour’s Unsettling glass, sand and fragment. (Previously published in m.e.stubbs poetry journal, Vol.2, Issue 2, November 2000)