July 19, 2019
Photo by Stephen Borkowski

A Poem by Jack R. Wesdorp

The records in your attic
are correct but erratic,
whole chapters have gone missing
when your captain went fishing.
There’s some tantalizing crocks
when your ship first left the docks,
there’s a lock of your blond hair
and your baby teeth are there,
but the times you spent drinking
shows that your boat was sinking.
You have photos of your kids,
other shards and fragment bits,
the divorce proceeding tapes
when the curse was taking shape,
videos of the fires,
the stuff you don’t admire,
the row of addiction proof,
and the leaking kitchen roof,
cold turkey kicked the habit,
there’s work to do, just grab it,
the ever-growing archives
that come flowing from our lives,
vouched safe to an attic trunk,
interspersed with fractal junk.