A ladder of two by fours nailed between studs
made it possible to ascend to the low attic
where we would crawl, on the lookout for wasps,
heads tucked tight to avoid nails.

There we found odd castoffs
from our parents’ mysterious childhoods:
old magazines and baby beds,
picture frames with portraits of antique strangers
Dad’s Navy trunk we weren’t to open.

A strange black spinning thing intrigued us:
It was fitted with slots
for dozens of red and black poker chips.
We’d spin then dump them,
stack in piles of red and black,
then fill and spin and stack.

We’d open the hinged window
          upstairs           Let it flap
against its chain, then stretch
        way out over      open
                                             air
to reach the sassafras tree, pull off
a twig to chew.           Lean out as far as you dare.

On rainy days we loved to play here
               our attic was Dad’s navy vessel,
                                   the rain slamming
her against hurricane high
                 waves in ’44.

Once in a while Dad himself
                              would poke his head
               above the floor,
make sure      we were okay
or maybe to remember play he’d forgotten.