Box in the Attic
In the attic there is a wooden box.
Ropes attach to each corner.
There is a pully above it, a simple mechanism
to raise and lower memories from below.
But at times, the flow
from one place to another is too much
and you end up throwing them willy nilly
falling in a heap, an unholy mess
of memories you want there,
and memories you wish would stay.
About this poem
Sometimes everything stays in nice little compartments. More times than not, they don’t. About houses. About my head.