Attic Living

Attic living The echo of wine is sadness, jokes told are not funny and laughter is a bronchial cough. Mirth gone when Sunday is despondent, an autumnal leaf that drags itself along a clammy asphalt road. Wrinkled faces framed by nylon shawls, hesitate by church steps as wanting to hear more words of everlasting love; before going home to empty rooms and dripping kitchen taps. October drizzle on Sunday´s best, bat wings open up and the murmur of the future less is a dying repeat; as the padre smokes a cigar in the vestry, wine has lost its glow.