Attic Poem

I love attics because it’s the closest you can get
to being backstage in your own life.
The change of air between the mortal world and this:

I love the stuffy attic and the cool.
I would rather take a tour of attics than a holiday.
O vinyl, boardgames, war chests, sepia;

O trauma, obsolescence, broken things.
Standing in the wings I look for some
foreshadowing of you: a photograph of us

before we met on opposite sides of a park;
your initials in two lost Scrabble tiles.
If you dream of an attic it means there is an afterlife;

if you dream of a basement, there is not.
Where does that go after a loft conversion?
We experience over seven million thoughts a day.

My neighbour is a ballet dancer who maintains
he can always tell when someone has a secret:
the brain is visibly, manifestly overstuffed.

They have a 4th bedroom and en suite.
Where do you put everything
you simply don’t know what to do with?

Luke Kennard

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