The artefacts of a childhood’s kingdom piled in haphazard boxes form a maze,
all once well-loved, and now relegated to the periphery.
The kid who enjoyed these toys had no idea of the paralysis they would one day cause.
Unable to part with the treasures of my youth, I sweat on the floor of my parents’ attic.
What are Masters of the Universe to a 40-something who’s just been orphaned?
Battle Beasts and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles clash with my wife’s love of farmhouse chic.
Eighteen years of Easter bunnies, plush matted and stuffing deflated, would drive anyone mad.
The Pound Puppies sleeping bag is a fire hazard, and the NES only plays games in black and white.
My offspring have no interest in this patrimony.
They have amusements for a modern age that begin with a lowercase “i.”
Yet, something must be done with all of life’s detritus.
And I am trying to overcome my environmental objections to a bonfire.
A teacher, farmer, poet who’s “seen the moment of my greatness flicker, … And in short, I was afraid.” [‘Prufrock’ – Eliot]