maybe tomorrow

the attic door,

propped open letting

in an angled

slice

of hall light,

smells old. musty.

webs hang

in the corner,

the soft rattle of wings

flutter

in the rafters,

the scurry

of something across

the loose boards

makes me lift

my hands

and wobble on the tight

ladder.

i swing my flashlight

around.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll explore further,

but for now the christmas

lights can

wait.