The night creeps up the stairs,
like thieves do, silently.
The only giveaway
is the squeaking mouse which
hides, under a floorboard,
dilapidated like
most things in the attic-
the attic which houses me.
When the double digits
of your age aren’t too large,
four white walls and the wind
through a broken window
are the canvas and paint
you use to map out your
gold brick road at midnight.
The nights are sinister-
peeling ceiling plaster
rain down like shards on your
dearth of accomplishments,
as though tripping around
the sun for years wasn’t
revolutionary.
But when ambrosia
reeks of gasoline rain
and tastes like syrupy
lies you serve yourself in
muddy cheap beer bottles,
this attic may be the
highest heaven you’ll reach.