Michigan Basement Poem by Francis Santaquilani

She's still down

In a basement somewhere

Banging things around,

Trying to find her way back up.

In her pajamas and ratty slippers

Groping for a string

To a lightbulb. Feet

Probing for the last stair.

Hands riding wildly over cold

Damp, warped, cement block walls

Searching for a window latch.

Bursting soft, bubbled paint along

The way. Paint chips dropping

To the slippery, tiled floor.

Knees and hips colliding with

Dangerous edges, new cuts and bruises

Sprouting over old cuts and bruises.

Guessing at odd textures and

Disturbing odors. Sidestepping dirty

Laundry and other things

Not in their right place. Every so often

Pausing to press her ears to the walls,

Listening to their grunting as they struggle

To hold back the saturated

March earth.

She could be anywhere in this state.