Found in an attic drawer

A plotter, a planner,
a doubting calculator.
Keys stuck – pressed too hard in Ohio.
Attics hold secrets and humidity.
Futons creak with photos taken a year ago.
Its now more act than action.
more stage than show.
“What do you want?” is the echoing poison,
the black crystal I use to add and multiply.
The sum aches with cold expectation
like a December graduation night.

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