THE CELLAR

The Cellar

Air moved a trap door
on a brick chimney -
forced heat, opened
then shut -
opened then shut

as if a ghost
pushed on a metal
flap with a thin long
handle -

As a little girl
hypnotized by
clanging metal.

Nearby - on cracked
cement walls were papa's
paintings -
shedding dust, for tears.

Now, I stand in the cold cellar -
for one split second I can
hear the whistle of a train. . .
over there,
on the platform -
brother, he has a
railroad
of his own.

See him?
leaning over;
his bare arms just
caught a splinter.

Straight ahead - and a little
to the right -
a bowling ball would travel
over cracked cement
most rolled of course. . .

Boys in our neighborhood
took those bowling balls -
no one wanted
holes where fingers
could not stretch.

Oh, listen to that washing
machine rock back and forth
on a wooden platform -
daddy built it; just like the one
for brothers' train.

Wait, now I hear all the
children in the sixth grade
laughing -
playing spin the bottle -

we paired off,
entering a different part
of our cellar, a "cold room"
beneath the back porch
near the cellar door.

Guess most of us from the
neighborhood learned
how to kiss under spider
webs hanging high above
our heads.

Today, I was told to
investigate - see what is left
from yesterday.

Memories - are never
stored inside a
cardboard box.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all right reserved