Loft space

to lose sight of the old goal, put your wistful head on, leaf through
the childhood verse that once adorned classroom walls. Boxes
of stuff it seemed wise to salvage – never nudged a second thought –
from a host of career falls. Scripts of lines nobody wanted to say,

rejected. Records, once keen to take the pain away: for a fate of
warped and murky leisure, selected. Disks of dreams: flaccid.
The story of your offspring told through bin bag and label. And if
the grit and gravel flies in your eye, burns a tear of acid, has you

hunched, reeling, starting to unravel... fear not, brave champion.
Breath. Stand straight. If you're able to turn those crates, and
that smile, upside down; ransack, like a crack-jonesing burglar,
through the infinite crap, the incomplete games and jigsaws of

your estate: You'll see a light there. A cheap strip of Morse
Code. It shines on – not what you want, but what you need.
Five little things that urge repair. After, you can return
to the landing – a hero. Changed. Poised for the next chapter.