The pulldown string a heavy sway

The pull-down string, a heavy sway.

A draft of air, stale, thick with dust.

My landlord's orders, clear today,

to clear it out, if I still trust

this space with anything at all.

Boxes stacked, a leaning tower.

A yellowed photo, small and tall,

a face I knew, for half an hour.

It's buried deep, beneath the years.

Old tax forms tied with faded string.

A history of silent fears,

of things I thought I'd always cling.

Just forgotten, above the ceiling.