Squirrel Scramble

The ceiling fan just whirs, a dull confession.

And then, a skitter, quick, above my head.

Tiny claws, a frantic, muted session.

A squirrel, I guess, where all the old things bled

into themselves. The attic, full of dust,

of boxes marked, then left for years unseen.

A faint, imagined smell of time and rust,

and mothballs for a life I haven’t been.

I picture warped photo albums,

yellowed lace, the broken lamp.

What else is up there, settling,

waiting for the damp

to claim it all?

A scratch, another scramble,

and my own mind picks up its pace,

a clumsy animal

trying to make sense of the forgotten space.