Attic

Written by: Patrick Cornwall

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