Upon a set of creeking planks,

With an aperture sealed under the ceiling,

Dust bunnies abscond within a blink of an eye

As a man scans the attic for items worth selling.

 

Shoveling bags and covers away,

A box of old appears from the corner.

And a spark of interest surrounds his noggin,

Thus he kneels to open it without such order.

 

A smell of  aged cinnamon fills the air,

Which lends your skin several goosebumps sprouts,

By surprise, the box was filled to the brim;

Toys who were ready to share their stories.

 

For each toy grabbed, the man becomes urgent; 

Eyes widen like yeast in a smoking oven,

With a smile as soft as mashed potatoes,

He begins to play back his youthhood again.

 

"Do you remember the comfort of Mr. Teddy,

Or even Superdude, whose strength only grows?

How about when you played with Rubber Ducky,

Because he was your only bath buddy you knew?

 

What about the time you met General Josh,

And he taught you a memorable oath?

The remote-control racer that made drifting a breeze,

or how the little engine climbed mountains of cloth?"

 

The man's favorite toy,  Robo-Tubular,

Made of scratchless tin and rock-hard plastic,

Slips out of his palms, into the box.

The sound of glass broken strikes his attention,

For it was as startling as tumbling rocks.

 

Reaching towards the core of the box,

The shattered glass appeared to belong to a frame.

A photo within, enchambering the past,

And everything  around the man comes to a halt.

 

Palms sweat, stomach turns,

And the smile on his face gradually cripples.

Four people, backs turned, upon a bench,

Glaring at the sunset, in a place that once beamed.

 

And all he could do, stiff and morose, 

To flee from the storm that arose in the attic.

Heart drained from reality, thanks to lost happiness,

A hot, droopy tear is the last to be static.