As we ransack Grandma's jumbled attic
in her blatant old house,
numerous ladybugs and even a mouse
snared in yellow dust, layered thick.
A rusty dress form displays only a hat
and a distant wall sports a battered ole' bat.
Boxes of antique shoes are
staged in a perfect row.
Scads of newsworthy magazines,
records of years past,
pictures, fashions of Victorian times
in frames, made of wood to last.
From a rickety stairwell
it's an effort to sneak a peek.
There's little chance to run around,
no space for hide and seek.
Large lofty windows appear to leak
as the floor feels unsound.
A passé leather trunk
full of winter scarves and such
sits on a mattress, once a GI's bunk.
Ah, there's a large Webster's lexicon
next to pieces of broken glass
from a battered kitchen hutch
A brass rack holds a faded quilt
draped in a heaped mass.
There's a wheel chair, a crutch -
wonder where those have been?
There's Grandpa's old uniform
with many medals, somewhat torn.
An empty silver flask that once held his Gin.
A child's rockin' horse sits alone
beside an honest-to-God telly
with a cradle & faded numbers
from overuse of long ago.
A recipe file in a dark corner,
at least that's what the label says.
I wonder how often Grandma sat up here
after Granddad passed away?
Many old treasures, to her so dear,
as well as her Bible & an old rug
upon which she would kneel to pray.