Attic Warfare

I was actually inspired by the junk you get in Christmas Crackers.

Collectible monuments from the 20th C
live in boxes in the roofs of houses.
The useful objects,
nail clippers and harmonicas,
rusting away in the attics gradual decay.
The drip-drop from shoddy roofs
shifts around the room exploring.
Our childhoods destroyed by droplets.
Yet I remember everything.
We twirled, circling our box as the water dripped.
We exchanged passions in the rain.
We swam through stagnant seas.
Being swept away from our sodden box.

The other boxes later dried.
And waited for next Christmas.
For calculators and rubber thimbles,
wooden puzzles and curled-paper jokes,
to fill their innards.
But last year’s rejects lie in broken boxes.
Licked brown with rust
shimmering in attic dust.