Updated: Feb 2
I have known the antediluvian grief of boxes,
Dilapidating in their corner, moth-snack,
All the tangled stress of string light and broken colorful balls,
Abandonment in concealed, memory-packed places,
Pristine porcelain doll, finger painting, playdough pottery,
The eternal nostalgia of baby bonnet and rolling rocket,
Memorial of typewriter, tricycle, three-legged toddler’s table,
The immortal impression of trinkets and toys.
And I have smelled rust on the exposed ceiling nails,
Sharper than shards, more menacing than beneath-bed monsters,
Corroded, almost consumed, through long decades of neglect,
Watching a little lady beneath and threatening to fall,
Wanting the demise of delicate dolls and decorations.