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Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
hobbyhorse dreams
by odin roark
rocking
just a few minutes more
almost there
remember our primitive forest
kitchen chairs
chrome trunks
yellow and green tree tops
nesting places for the vultures
always present
always ready to prey
rocking
kitchen cabinet canyons
scarred timbered walls
smooth worn knobs
magic openings
caves for hiding
once again
passing through familiar terrain
approaching tiered rise
the climb we've never finished
Pinto and me
up into air
just for us
rocking
so much ground covered
why does Nurse Vera
always eye me
touch my shoulder
she knows
we're almost there
almost ready to climb
off old pinto
once we're to the top
but
not today
not enough time
group time
pill time
heal time
that's what they call it
healing time
why do they want to heal our dreams Pinto?
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