Dust In the Attic
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Dust in the Attic
The tree,
I have to take it down.
It is heavy and I am tired,
before I start.
That is not going to stop me.
Others count on me.
Well, not many,
but a few.
I wish that I was going home,
but that is only a place in time,
that has no rhyme.
The stair is down, the box is too,
no bad thing happened, yet.
I drag the end, across the floor,
into the open den door.
I wish that I was going home,
but that is only a place in time,
that has no rhyme.
I break the tape, pull back the lid,
the small mouse ran.
I wish that I was going home,
but that is only a place in time,
that has no rhyme.
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2019
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