Attic

there’s an attic in my head
and it sifts time –

the stairs leading there creak
like forgotten (and now recalled)
ghosts:

equivocating apparitions
that might mean me well
but I’ll never know;

I evict them
from the attic in my head
before their echoes die

(I imagine that)
each echo
like a well-meaning curate
goes back to the parsonage
to intercede on my behalf

and later returns in stealth
to occupy its previous station

there are mirrors
and bird cages
and hymnals
and wardrobes
and painted work horses
and drafts
and forgotten dreams
in the attic in my head

I think the ghosts
live among these things

one day I will speak to the ghosts
of these things

but not today.