Site icon Angie's Diary

The Cellar


Air moved a trap door
on the chimney in the
cellar, forced heat –
open, shut, open, shut. . .
as if a ghost pushed the
flap back and forth.
Hypnotized by soft sounds
of metal moving.

On cracked cement walls,
father’s pictures hung,
as if they were shedding
tears of dust.

One split second
I heard a train whistle
over there, on the home
made platform, and the
train kept going around
in circles – and he was
there – bending over
the table fixing the city
near the train. . .

Then the rumbling of
a bowling ball, down
DUCI Lanes.  A real set
of pins, a damaged ball,
the alley burnt to the

And, the washing machine
and the sound of children
laughing when a coke
bottle spun, finding its’
next victim

We all entered the cold
cellar, where we weren’t
suppose to play – and it
was there where I first
tasted lips.

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