Aging Bundles of Debris
at seven
locked in a cold cellar
where bulbs hang to dry
in damp darkness of night
sleds posed for winter play
near steep piles of wood,
one on top of one
tin buckets filled with sand
a graveyard for mice
who crept into a wooden trap
garden gloves stiff
yellow paint dry
metal cans left open
newspapers cover a wooden door
near an oval window
up three steps to the outside
a door nailed shut
where little, little feet
feel loose cement
seven
spider webs hang
far above my head
I see it now...
I feel it now...
as if someone locked
me into the cellar
at seven, a hideout
below reality
still smell dampness
feel the cold, see colors...
all senses clear
not that I am blind.
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