Where shall I hide my things?
The attic: separated for eternity from its twin, the basement, by architects and their congregation, who segregate root vegetables from boxes of tintypes and the board games of children who’ve moved away. There’s a fur coat in the attic too, made with the pelt of a mammal that would be extinct if not grown to be worn. All the other animals we don’t like to garment are dying out. Maybe termites will destroy the attic. Then we wouldn’t have to listen to roof ridges squeegeeing smudges off the sky’s magnificent blue window.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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