A Crawl Space for an Attic
Behind me drags my leg, ahead my mind
Gazelles—presenting problems: stairs,
Cobblestone, pristine golf-course greens in spikes.
I’m adolescent—all thrust and no thought,
Careering limbs. A basement’s what I need.
A place to walk without descent,
Provided I do not come up for air,
For light of day. Down-dwelling, in the must,
Book after book: natural selection
And other disregarded novels, one
About backyard songbirds, a hundred more
Concerning governesses. A T.V.
For zombie films and sit-coms without laugh-tracks.
Provide your own applause, I’ll say, if you
Come visit me. Come for my sundry wisdoms,
Come for my television. Stay the night.
A basement’s what I need and a crawl-space
For an attic. For my things. My boxes
Of books and boxes of dust. Hands and knees,
Courageous through the spider webs,
A flashlight in my teeth. One leg will lag
But you can’t fall from a crawl, not so far
To break a bone or hard enough to crush
Your guts. In fact, it’s the perfect distance
To fall. To gather new wisdoms from worms
And roaches: lowliness and other dis-
Regarded heights. During that night, the one
You’ll stay to watch T. V., I’ll usher you
Through dark, dank, catacombs of rusted tools,
Decapitated dolls, and unused paint.
Just follow me, I’ll say, Follow my scoot
And drag. Do like me, I’ll say—
Kneel, scoot, drag.