What the Basement Knows

Decades of footsteps overhead.
Down here, darkness
keeps different books.

The furnace clicks
its night language.
Hot water pipes sing
what light cannot hear.

That corner behind the stairs
still holds something.
The floor knows
where the workbench stood.

Even now, descending,
my hand finds the rail
where my child-hand learned.

The same cool air.
The same earth smell.
Going underground.

What does the basement know?

The true count of spiders.
Where lost things wait.
How many times someone stood here
in the dark,
deciding.

Christmas ornaments.
Grief.
Canning jars.
Rage.
The broken chair
that might be fixed.

Letters that won’t be answered.

All of it waiting
for someone who reads
by touch.