basement stories

Summer mornings found me sleeping in the basement
Dad banging and barking on his way out
Headed into the bowels of the city
I lay dazed staring at white cinder block walls
Cold black tiles under my feet
Cream-colored splashes to break the monotony.
The cool and damp was welcome relief
From the upstairs sweatbox
Only one air conditioner in the house
And that was reserved for mom and dad
The rest of us sweating in our sleep
Windows agape, fans blazing.
Sunlight flooded through the windows
On three sides at ceiling-level
Illuminating the sparsely furnished space
Replete with unused ping-pong table
And furniture that had outlived its usefulness
Expect for the couch that I used as a bed.
My radio sat on the floor to keep me company
Playing scratchy tapes I made from vinyl
Or songs stolen off the airwaves
Then later on I picked up Canadian stations
Pulled from the skies after midnight
Across Detroit’s wasteland and across the river.
I recorded those shows as well
Pressed record and fell asleep
Saved the disc jockey’s accented prattling
Punctuated with angry distorted music
Sights and sounds from far away
From across the oceans or across the plains.
Mornings began with a bowl of Cheerios
And some kind of orange-ish drink
Cold margarine-soaked toast
That dad had left behind
Mom would recite my list of chores
As she darted from room-to-room.
I recall those tasks being horrible
But what did I know in those days
I remember them wasting away my hours
Cleaning up the yard or garage
But there never was much to do
Could finish all those things in no time.
My parents kept everything so uncluttered
Everything in its place just like us
Now my life is the exact opposite
Everything tossed to whatever corner
Cannot even imagine seeing it cleared
Could spend days and weeks digging out.
This winter morning I woke up in the basement
Turned off my alarm just after 6 a.m.
Sleeping down there so I don’t wake everyone
Tripping over the garbage bag and crap
Cold white tiles with black splashes
Shoes and toys littered everywhere.
Squeezed into 720 feet squared
All five mouths counting on me
Sump pump gurgling as I go upstairs
Avoiding shoes in the darkened stairwell
Stepping over the puddles and clothes
A far cry from yesteryear’s forced organization.