In the Basement
Beneath this floor I stand on is the ground--
the solid ground, though tunneled with scurrying eyes,
and the slow, intense activities of stone,
Above, across the ceiling, field mice run
with a scuttling noise, and beyond that there's the sound
of giant footsteps thumping through the upper rooms.
It's cool and damp down here, and daylight comes
feebly, through two windows--oblong, high--
and through black pipes the water rushes down.
I could go upstairs and confront the autumn sun;
through picture windows, face the blazing trees,
and the courtyard where the scarlet flowers bloom,
but linger here, submerged, half underground,
where all is still and hidden--safe--alone--
while the world above goes plunging on to die.
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie