The Devil's Attic

What was your favorite Halloween costume as a kid? My husband still remembers the robot suit his dad made for him out of a cardboard box and a roll of foil.

When we were little, you'd see a parade of hobos and gypsies, cowboys and clowns all parading along the dark suburban sidewalks. The devil, in a leering red paper mask, was another popular one.

I never dressed as the devil, but every now and then I do feel like he's taken up residence in my head. Here's a poem of mine that won a prize from the Oregon Poetry Association and was published in Verseweavers this year.

The Devil’s Attic

Anger has found himself a home,

nestled in the apartment upstairs,
he’s put up red velvet drapes and
an antique lamp he found in the street,
installed a stereo system and rolled out
Persian rugs.  Taking pleasure in everything,
he especially enjoys his evenings, stretching
his fingers toward the fire, his skin glows
as he pokes at the logs, making new sparks
before the flames dull to smoke.

These are the quiet times, between

the heated parties, the shrill laughter
and the shattered glass, the pounding feet
dancing to a drunken beat, a clashing cymbal,
the occasional scream.  He is the undesirable
tenant who never leaves—even when I hang
white laundry on the line or make a point of
sniffing a pineapple sage leaf.  I can smile until
my jaws ache, eat a cherry, sew a new skirt,
tie a satin ribbon around my waist, and Anger
will still sit back in his plush chair and let me slide
leather slippers on his feet, he will keep
holding up his glass, and I’ll be there,
ready to pour him a drink.