Poetry: Attic

My dusty attic.

“BAckache,too much sitting…”

So many things on my mind,
it’s a cluttered, messy, dusty attic.

You can notice flying particles of stars,
satan’s dandruff, phoenix ash 
and a Wall Street banker sitting 
typing something, fighting buzzing headache,
questions.

Occasional sunbeam focused 
on the wooden attic floor
spilling tales and visions
like I’m spilling whiskey
on my work.

Backache, too much sitting
stretching learned from a neighbor cat,
kneeling graciously where sunbeam passed
the tornado made of light and stories,
that I pick up, hanging up to dry
from tears of happiness or sadness.

It will take another fifty years to clear this attic,
even then, the library will grow,
ash and dust collecting on the pages,
fire hazard, tryhard phantom.

Poetry by Vladimir Fischer

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