poem: basement

17 Dec

Basement

in the basement you hear
footsteps
of strangers
as they travel
as they move from left to right

under bare bulbs that hang on wire
books sit forlorn
but waiting
always yearning
dreaming hopeful

women that wear high heels
sound out Morse code translations
puppets on strings cross they cables
gale storms
brew
on transparent seas

Russians offer tales of trepidation
Mayakovsky, my fellow-traveler
the moorings are rusted
an ebb tide makes way

i remember songs of radiant wonder
that quelled torments
of a skin seasoned by fire

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