Attic

Washing his memories he hangs each to dry He folds them promptly so they gather no wrinkles Takes pride in his work and packs each thought with care And when needed they eagerly come out of the attic Doesn't bother with lingering smells on each garment He tries each on with fondness and caresses He wears the sweater of his youth which recalls His first kiss was in that sweater and he feels her lips Fine lips Fine as frog hair and the sweater He looks at the football jersey and the run The run made the jersey famous What good is a famous run, a jersey, a first kiss They can't be bought anew They can't be fixed if broken They can only dream in my attic