Uncle in the Attic   He’s up there — Uncle in the attic, under the chimneypots. We hear him at night, enraged at things we just can’t see. We wonder at his funhouse laugh, his schemes to brighten up the dark, his incessant tap-dancing, his unbecoming sense of command. Sometimes he stomps down in his underpants and shiny shoes to give us guff, demand outlandish rents and whatever we’ve got in the icebox. We don’t trust him. We fear his sulks, his quicksilver moods. When it’s hot he complains, and when it’s cold. Does he hear us when we laugh at him? Do we disturb his dreams? Does he even sleep? All our noise comes to nothing — we ate the magic herbs that make us think, This time he’ll give us toys.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2016