Before They Hit the Attic

A poem about how I will live my life.

My memories as precious as shooting stars
Across the galaxy’s infinite night
Will only end as all the best ones do--
Requesting the tab to settle out the end
of a finite and wild ride.

“And would it have been worth it after all
Would it have been worthwhile?”
I will sit here
--Pen Suspended--
And mull over the matter without a smile.

My memories may end up in a dusty attic box
Beneath a bear torn and used
Which once upon a time somewhere…
Was someone’s something new.
Next to ruminations I once thought
in a picture of Ma-Mamie’s working hands;
Wrapped in the warm embrace
Of a long-ago summer’s sweltering end.

But I WILL NOT sit here caged like Dickinson
Watching my world begin and end
Next to my companionable dictionary
and myself…only myself.
I will stand out in the wind
And at least hit my crescendo before I end.
I will make more memories
Then add them to the list of things
to be re-done and repeated
before settling their way
--dusty and discounted--
into the old and boring hands of my attic.

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