Saturday, August 31, 2013

Someone Lives In Here

Someone Lives In Here

Every broken
window is a piece of me.
The way you said so
pulled me out of time
and threw me to the dusty
floor of my antic
past, once well swept but
no longer. I don't go there.

In one far corner
a small creature makes
her home. I see her scat here
and here but not there.
I wonder why me?
Why must I do it?
I hear her rustle papers,
an old obsolete
will among them, sure.
Go get the broom, son. Sweep up.
But no. I do not
want to disturb her.

‎August ‎31, ‎2013 11:06 AM


  1. this is an attic of my past too, literally. i miss attics like that, i do have a shop here besides house, it does have that musty smell of old buildings of my childhood, i like it for that.
    i like this picture for that, indeed do not disturb her.

    1. In the attic in the photo, birds live in it. You can tell. However you may have read the poem with attic in it but the word was actually "antic". An attention-drawing often wildly playful or funny act or action - is how one dictionary says it. My antic past.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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