By Lauren KerrThere is a man in my attic,
who nobody seems to see,
but sometimes, when it’s late,
he puts his ear to the floor,
and speaks to me.
I still don’t know his name,
but I think he’s quite normal,
perhaps a builder or window cleaner,
let’s call him Jack. For the purposes
of title, I asked him, why was he there?
All I could make out, was I’ll never go back.
I didn’t mind his presence, but
he started to ask strange things,
like how he wondered,
where I kept my childhood belongings.
He said that out of all the attics,
where he would lay his head,
the emptiness of my one,
filled him with a looming dread.
I tried to explain, nothing had happened –
the things are just, gone.
He sighed and I knew he wanted more,
so I told him about my Roald Dahl charms.
How losing them, still felt sore.
I think that maybe, maybe Jack knew,
that the sorest part, was how I’d told you.
I told you, about each one, how they
were the only thing I kept neat and pristine.
You sipped on your pint, and your eyes,
followed my voice expressing your keen.
Despite the fact, I merely rambled along,
but now, like the charms, you are also gone.
Who the fuck are you, Jack?
To fill my head, with all that I lack?
I shouted to the attic door, and all he said was,
you need to get out more.
Well, yeah, I guess you’re right,
you’re right, my man of the night.