Aging Bundles Of Debris
Seven – locked in a storm cellar
where bulbs hang to dry in damp –
darkness of night.
Sleds posed for winter play –
piles of wood – never used where
Mama said, “Mice live.”
I reach to find the glove grandmother
used to paint our home, stiff – from yellow
Light enters near an oval window
covered in last years paper –
wax paper wrap taped to studded walls.
Light comes from beyond where steps
of cement are seen – to reach outside.
Tiny pieces of cement caught between
toes, tickled bare feet.
Spider webs hung near a light switch,
told, “Never touch,” so I listened – black
wires, a resting place for silver strands
of silk –
I twist the bulb – it heats up – only then
do strands of the web move back and forth
as a black spider finds its’ way out from
I am stranded here with aging bundles
of debris –
I see it now! Feel it now –
Locked down in our storm cellar –
a play spot for big boys – a hide out,
a storage room for Grandmother’s vegetables –
a shed for tools, a place where
Mama kept cardboard boxes filled
with dolls, tricycles – boxes resting on pipes –
hung above my head.
I remember a cold shiver run up and down
my spine – dampness had an awkward feeling –
as fear had a grip on memory inside my head
– knew never to be caught alone in our storm
cellar – where children never played.