Unfinished

The landlord says the house is settling,

just the wood adjusting its weight

like a man trying to get comfortable

in a chair that’s too small.

I pushed the plywood hatch aside.

The air up there is a different decade,

stale and tasting of old news.

The pink fiberglass lies in drifts,

looking like something sweet

you could press your face into,

if you didn't know the way it needles

the skin until it draws a different kind of heat.

Something is moving in the corner.

The flashlight beam doesn't reach.