The Astronomer's Loft

A telescope, a battered couch, and a loft beyond the reach of small children — sometimes, growing older still, leaves room for a den.

She leaves him to the loft awhile;
his kid can't climb the ladder to him yet.
A couch sits somehow wedged beneath the eaves,
the mystery is how he ever got it there.

His bonus bought the telescope. Cost a bomb.
Metallic orange, black against the clutter.
She was unimpressed. He skins one up
and draws the stars towards the sloping roof.

We built our dens in trees from things we found,
and nobody came in unless we said.
He shuts the hatch and settles on the couch,
waits for his eyes to get used to the dark.

He bends, one eye against the telescope.
Tonight, at least, he remembers why he's here.