The boxes in my attic prove I’m somehow holding on.

Never for myself, I really don’t think. For someone else.

Someone not yet here.

Perhaps my imaginary grandson to discover one day and put up on a shelf

like I’ve done with a drum stick and the silver dollar that I’d found upstairs

when we cleaned out their house after my grand parents both passed away.

They were probably forgotten up there for longer that I’ve been alive.

I’m not sure what they mean to me, nor what I’ll mean to him.

I think words are worth more than actions anyway, so fuck the common wisdom.

I’d rather have been a writer than a drummer in the end.


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