What They Left

The smell hit before the light came on.

Cardboard. And underneath that—

something floral, faint,

a dryer sheet from whoever was here before.

I found the tax box. That was the whole reason.

But near the far eave, where the ceiling

slopes down and you can't stand up anymore,

there was a sneaker.

Child's sneaker. White, velcro strap.

Lace still tied.

No match anywhere in sight.

I looked anyway.

Moved a few boxes, checked behind the insulation

along the far wall.

Nothing.

I don't know why I looked.

The other one was clearly gone.

Clearly left behind years ago

by people who aren't here anymore.

I took the tax box down.

Left the sneaker.

Pulled the stairs up after me.