"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
The subconscious, like the loft, is where you keep all the stuff that you don’t use daily but might need again one day. This one has been kicking around for a while, but like several others has been finished (has it?) in response to NaPoWriMo.
I wouldn’t care to look.
I’ve not accumulated things;
I’ve no dishonourable lampshades,
treadmills, no old-fashioned toys.
Besides, I know what’s in there.
On their bentwood chairs, my dead
are playing cribbage,
eating maraschino cherries
waiting for someone to bring them news.