Dust and Old Wax

The box groaned, a dry sigh,

from the closet's dim eye.

Cardboard dust, a fine skin,

then that smell—it seeped in.

Not just mold, or just age,

but a turning of page,

to my grandpa's garage,

a faint, oily mirage.

That '70s album, deep purple,

had caught it, a faint, slow ripple.

Wood polish, a faint burn,

a lesson I'd never unlearn:

how a ghost can just bloom

from a dark, quiet room,

from the grooves of old wax.

It just hits, then attacks.