I love attics because it’s the closest you can get
to being backstage in your own life.
The change of air between the mortal world and this:
I love the stuffy attic and the cool.
I would rather take a tour of attics than a holiday.
O vinyl, boardgames, war chests, sepia;
O trauma, obsolescence, broken things.
Standing in the wings I look for some
foreshadowing of you: a photograph of us
before we met on opposite sides of a park;
your initials in two lost Scrabble tiles.
If you dream of an attic it means there is an afterlife;
if you dream of a basement, there is not.
Where does that go after a loft conversion?
We experience over seven million thoughts a day.
My neighbour is a ballet dancer who maintains
he can always tell when someone has a secret:
the brain is visibly, manifestly overstuffed.
They have a 4th bedroom and en suite.
Where do you put everything
you simply don’t know what to do with?