IN THE ATTIC

Dust hangs clogged so thick

The air has a dusty taste:

Spider threads cling to my face,

From the broad pine-beams.

There is nothing living here,

The house below might be quite empty,

No sound comes from it.

The old broken trunks and boxes,

Cracked and dusty pictures,

Legless chairs and shattered tables,

Seem to be crying

Softly in the stillness

Because no one has brushed them.

No one has any use for them, now,

Yet I often wonder

If these things are really dead:

If the old trunks never open

Letting out grey flapping things at twilight?

If it is all as safe and dull

As it seems?

Why then is the stair so steep,

Why is the doorway always locked,

Why does nobody ever come?