08 March 2011

The Tenuous Thread of Sanity

All of the sounds that live in a
basement resound vividly in an 
                                              old house.
Years of heartbeats and
footsteps of mice and centipedes, of the cats 
in the dark. The furnace 
breathes the fumes of heat,
churns in the dank moist underbelly where the tools hide and the extras, the things no one has room for but no one wants to lose and every one forgets about:
toy airplanes and bottle caps, the little toy fighting 
men and candles, the boxes of books and dolls 
of hair blown hourglass women, the clothing that used to fit and might again after 15 lbs. magically 
               thanks to some wise guy who decided that eating only meat was the next crazed trend everyone would be stuck on; the bar bells that were going to make you a muscle bound mighty man, rusty ice skates you keep because they remind you of spending that one day with your 
out on the frozen lake so long ago but you remember it like it was on DVD, with his big leather mittens and white cotton falling out, and the morning's unshaven look
just you two and windy iced lake.  it's not so cold. no not too cold, and the pictures and the broken picture frame;
And the box with 
no label or marking
that's been sitting there for 
longer than you can remember but it won’t go anywhere – it’s meant for storage
in the basement of an old house.

That’s what basements are good for and attics too.

1 comment:

  1. I *love* the imagery, but the focus is a little bit too purposefully vague. The last line made me smile.