so how can I not wonder,
what is it about me that’s so repulsive:
- my dark breath,
all stale and damp?
- the fact that I lack this common need
to clog up the world with noise?
sending mysterious sounds
down to their beds at night,
faint at first,
then somewhat certain,
in time, enough to wake them.
But I was never so inclined.
Such company they pair me with:
battered boxes, crippled chairs,
Christmas trees strangled in lights,
a dead man’s clothes, video cassettes,
a one-string violin.
For weeks, I hosted a lunatic bat
that wouldn’t let me sleep.
Did you say something?
Perhaps it’s that I’m odd,
like an alcoholic aunt who’s come to stay
(for an undefined period).
How could I not be,
when they put such odd things into me?
Based on a comment received on my poem "A Brief Word for Rooms", I'm trying the various parts as separate poems, and I've added this new one for the attic. All comments welcome. If it's too generic like many of the other rooms in that poem, let me know, please. And how about the use of faded text, bold, the strikethrough and bullet points? Too gimmicky, or in keeping with the character? Thanks, everyone