the basement

it was

a house with a real basement.

no dry wall

up or finished off,

no carpet or tiles

on the floors,

wooden steps

that creaked as you went down

to a stained slab

of cement.

there were

cobwebs in the rafters,

the low

ceiling touching

your head.

there was the sound

of pipes exhaling,

the shimmer and shake

of the furnace.

it was dark

and damp and smelled

funny.

old boxes and magazines

were stacked

and in the way.

a child's sled

a broken bicycle, a pair

of roller skates.

there may have been a

casement window

letting in some grey

light,

and a string to pull to

turn on

a forty-watt bulb.

there was

a washer and dryer

in the corner,

next to a stone sink,

and a pile of laundry

on the floor waiting

to be washed.