attic

each stamp, a
foreign stop
along the way, by
train perhaps
for someone who
was in india,
or spain,
once pressed
by tips
of fingers,
firmly into place.
you had to lick
the glue.
this book found
high in
a wet attic
laced in web,
the curved
carve of wooden
trunks, full
of stiffened
dolls with hardened
skin and faces
built more
towards fear,
than comfort.
a seatless
bicycle, with spokes
bent, the chain
a line of cinammoned
rust, and bolts of
wallpaper saved
only because
they cost so much.
lamps with bad wiring.
bird cages, birdless
of course,
the gates swung
open, a scrap
of newspaper still
on the bottom. some
news that isn't
news now.
and the albums
of lives, photos,
stacked like cords
of wood
awaiting fire. it
all makes you
want to tell someone,
come look, come
see what i have
found.