a wishbucket painting of a midwest
sky in the evening.
an old rusty singlespeed scwinn bicycle.
folded mothball memories stacked
in cardboard.
and you can pass down three generations
in an A-framed wonderment.
lost to all but not to dust, where spiders play
keeper of all still keepsakes.
thier hollow formed webs catch
dreams in the night.
nathan martin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/corners-in-the-attic/
