Attic Stuff

 

The musty scent of aging volumes greets

me at the attic door: a crooked stack,

in leather trim. A manuscript competes

for my attention: photographs in black

and white, the faces stern, exuding pride.

And record albums -- Porter, Ellington;

the Philco phonograph that occupied

the favored space of long-departed kin.

An easy chair, discolored on the arms

from grandpa's many hours of pleasantries

with mother at his side, her genial charms

a keepsake in my clouded memories.

I turn away, a ragged doll appears:

its stitches seem to smile at passing years.