Today, I am a Phillip’s- head queen.  
Grown enough to recall an old man’s
aftershave on this damnit-to-Hell, where
did I put my flashlight kind of day.
In the attic, covered in sweat and hostility,
there’s dirt nudging between
my fingers…
The tent peak closeness of this tender box
white house is still a luxury for me
to behold.

Along the knuckleboard rafters, I crawl,
breathing hard, unexpected thoughts
about blackberry juicing. 
I notice the gallon bucket,
expensive trash bags, and imagine
digging my arms, elbow-deep into quarts of fruit,
dumped in haste, meant for squeezing…
how I would spread the fuchsia-drip transfusion
while I listened to the sucking squish of fruity meat
fall in tempo with squirrel foot ping-pings on
the metal roof this last June Monday
of the year.

I don’t believe in mirrors or
antique bedframes, anymore,  but I’d
swing across a river filled with chip-cupped smut,
if it meant I’d never need to wash my shoes again.  
Down, down, down I step from
the pull-down attic ladder into the kitchen and
I smile at my inherited table with its old-school veneer, 
still missing a leaf…
but man, if it isn’t covered with good taste
laziness and laughs.
There, a mess was left behind the coffeepot. Look!
The fancy dog has brought me
a potato peel from last night’s supper, and
all I can wonder is whether there is time
to plant a rose bush this summer.