They lay crumpled on
the oil cloth carpet
up in the attic
dusty old wood smells.
My grandmother’s toys
my sisters and I discovered
in ancient trunk, hidden
Now they became our playthings
we arranged scenes, their joints
bent into impossible positions.
We soon tired of them,
as boring as reread books,
so we left the attic, left
them to their repose,
in the ancient trunk
awaiting another child.
I have no idea what
happened to them,
thrown away, tossed
most likely, yet they remain in
memory, musty and novel
Discarded and gone.
IAMSTARLIGHT 