The Young Man in the Wooden Frame

at the top of the stairs

behind a small door only large enough

for a child to disappear into the musty interior,

he waited patiently, for her, for someone,

leaning against the rafters amidst

piles of chewed-up newspaper bits,

and dessicated mouse turds.

she crawled towards a patch of sunlight

towards the back corner, past tattered school notebooks

filled with exquisite cursive penmanship,

stacks of old bills with stamped letterhead

towards a young man frozen in time,

now a mere collection of silver spheres

arranged across a yellowing canvas.

they sat there together in the shimmering dust

in the heat of summer under the eaves

as best friends do until her mother called

her back to cookies and play dates

and other such things.