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About This Poem
Attic
Washing his memories he hangs each to dry
He folds them promptly so they gather no wrinkles
Takes pride in his work and packs each thought with care
And when needed they eagerly come out of the attic
Doesn't bother with lingering smells on each garment
He tries each on with fondness and caresses
He wears the sweater of his youth which recalls
His first kiss was in that sweater and he feels her lips
Fine lips
Fine as frog hair and the sweater
He looks at the football jersey and the run
The run made the jersey famous
What good is a famous run, a jersey, a first kiss
They can't be bought anew
They can't be fixed if broken
They can only dream in my attic
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