The Basement
I am organized.
At my brainstem.
The smells are underground.
Like bricks and her amazing cooking.
She turns her head.
Her hair flickers.
A crumb tumbles.
Beneath it all.
It is cold.
But there’s steam.
From homemade casserole.
I am even more organized than most.
Clumps of dirt in piles.
Organized by date and time.
I am in the basement.
Nothing is furnished.
Just me.
A creaky ceiling.
Pipes that could burst.
And my phone by my side.
It’s 3:45 am.
And no one is calling me upstairs.
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