Rafters loom large between rusty nails.
A small raccoon peers out diamond at roof’s gable.
Ladder, missing rungs of course, stands ready.
Pine wood, walnut casings, large barrel stuffed with radio parts,
Mr. Bowles, struck dead by a mail truck on Henry Street, left treasures up there.
Sleepovers, flashlights, sleeping bags, pillows, Tiger Beat magazine.
Stooping over in the dark in the loft,
Laughing, scooping out chocolate cake richness made by Mom.
Cousins reaching in, me reaching in.
A sudden soft, swift wandering on sun-tanned arm.
Flash of light! Caught you!
Just a cluster of eight eyed spiders
Joining us for a late dessert.