ROCKING-HORSES AND OTHER ATTIC THINGS

It is a place not unusual but curious, not ordinary but mysterious. This place above our living quarters is sometimes not normal.

Amid wooden beams

And dusty-salted beams of light

Maybe a sleep-over from  previous night

Wears the stare from the rocking-horse chair -

The giant, pink ball

At its flank

Is sure to strike in unison

When thrown from upon its back -

Some jacks are strewn about,

A pencil, crayons, hard to tell

From what container they fell -

Against a wall full mirror leans,

And if you peer into its gleam

I think you'll find a ghostly lore -

Oh, it is but us ....

Just we who live beneath the floor -