I’m moving boxes and papers that smell
like the attic my grandmother never had.
My room, stripped naked of its former glory,
stares blankly back at me with its oddly checkered floor.
I still see imprints and stamps of old wooden feet,
and there is a couch sitting in the kitchen, looking
more out of place than Pavarotti at a hoe-down.
I have enough dust and boxes to start my own attic,
but it will have to wait until the mantels and corners
of my mind collect more dust and boxes too.
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